Rehab
by Flatpickluvr
Summary: Embellishment of the "Three Stories" episode where it's revealed what happened to House's leg. Rated M for language. Chapter 55 now up. Rough last day in the hospital for House!
1. On the golf course

Rehab

**Hi there, dear readers! It's been a very nice Saturday and I decided it's time for a new story. This one's Hilson all the way through plus we see a little bit of Stacy and Sam Carr (but Sam will be portrayed in a different light from what we've seen on the show so far). I know there have been about a million infarction stories but I still think there's room for improvement over what is already out there. I took the story of how House suffered the infarction, as told in "Three Stories", and embellished it quite a bit. The timeline is not in keeping with the show so just keep that in mind as you're reading. For example, Sam Carr makes an appearance as Wilson's first wife in my story here when House has his infarction, but on the show, we didn't even know who Wilson's first wife was until much later on. Even though the timeline has differences from that on the show, I tried to keep House and Wilson as in character as I could. As usual, I don't own the show or the characters from the show. They are property of David Shore, Fox, NBC Universal, and the other powers that be. I only own my story and the OCs. **

After getting off the elevator, Wilson looked to his right and to his left. The nurse's station was toward his right. In front of the nurse's station there was a traffic jam with doctors on their way to see patients, nurses preparing medications, and therapy aides on their way to patient rooms with wheelchairs and other assistive devices. It was 8 am, and the day was just getting started for the patients in the vascular surgery wing. On his way down the long narrow hallway, Wilson found himself dodging dietary aides pushing a heavy meal cart full of dirty breakfast trays the opposite direction, toward the elevators. Wilson astutely noticed that the uppermost tray in the rack, the one picked up from the last room at the end of the hallway on the right, was completely untouched – unlike all of the others, which had been demolished. There was a completely untouched bowl of jello, a cup of iced tea from which the cover hadn't even been removed, and an unopened carton of orange juice. None of the items on the tray had been opened.

Closing his eyes for a moment, he gathered his thoughts as he neared his destination. Within a few feet of the patient's room, he found the door closed. Like all of the other rooms in this hallway, this was a semi-private room occupied by two patients. Unwilling to bother the other patient unnecessarily and unsure as to whether or not to knock, he paused a moment and listened.

"Come on, Dr. House. You can do this." A male voice was talking softly. "The dressing is off so I can check your incision. I have to check your pulses and I need you to wiggle your toes."

An annoying series of rapid beeps followed. It sounded like teenagers on Halloween, pounding on a doorbell just to annoy the homeowner. "Dr. House, that's only programmed to…" "I know what it's fucking programmed to do!" House yelled. "If you don't want me to reprogram it myself I need you to get my surgeon right now!"

"Ok, ok. Hold on. I'll get the doctor now," Ronald said with compassion and understanding. "I'll get him right now."

Wilson could hear Ronald paging House's surgeon from the other side of the closed door. The phone rang inside House's room. "Dr. O'Malley, hi, it's Ronald Major. I'm the nurse taking care of Dr. House today. I paged you because I was wondering if we could go up on Dr. House's morphine. He's on 2 mg an hour. According to what I heard in report this morning from the night shift, he was still pretty out of it from the anesthesia most of the night. About 6 am he started waking up more, and he's completely wide awake now. The morphine we have him on now isn't doing anything."

Wilson opened the door and wasn't ready for what he saw. House's roommate nodded briefly at Wilson then with an irritated motion, quickly jerked the curtains closed around his bed. Wilson passed the roommate and got his first view of House since yesterday.

Yesterday had been bad enough. Today obviously promised to be a whole lot worse.

A week ago, House was playing a pickup game of golf with three other guys he didn't know. He checked out the list in the clubhouse to see if there were any players signed up that day who needed a partner. These three guys needed a fourth. The three other guys turned out to be doctors from Princeton General. They met House in the clubhouse, introduced themselves, got some drinks and snacks and headed out to the first hole. House didn't know the three men but they recognized him right off the bat. "You're Greg House, aren't you, from the Diagnostics department over at PPTH, right? You head it up, don't you?" House nodded and gave them an indifferent shrug. He wasn't being rude. He just wasn't really in the mood to talk. He wanted to get out on the course, enjoy the nice weather, and stretch his legs a little. "We're all on staff at General. I'm Daniel O'Malley, this here's Tim and Jeff. We're all vascular surgeons." _Who cares, _thought House. "Ok," was all he said.

On the first hole, House let the other three guys go ahead of him. He was enjoying the view of the four gorgeous ladies waiting their turn on the tee behind his group. The weather was warm and they were perspiring a bit even though they hadn't even started playing yet. The ladies were mostly preoccupied with gossip, but the one who caught his eye winked back at him and unbuttoned the top button on her golf shirt. It never hurt to flash a little skin in front of a cute guy, even on a golf course. In fact, especially on a golf course. It was widely assumed that good young female golfers were also dykes. She wanted to let him know in no uncertain terms that she was quite ready and available if he should deign to come over and treat her to a closer view of his beautiful blue eyes.

The three guys were pretty decent golfers but they didn't have the same graceful athleticism House had. House's swing was fluent and powerful on the tee, gentle and accurate on the green. On the ninth hole, House teed off. As he twisted in the backswing, he noticed mild pain in his right thigh. _Must have pulled a muscle_, he thought. It didn't hurt too bad and he still hit a pretty good drive – the ball arched gracefully through the air and landed straight and true down the middle of the fairway, and it landed about 90 yards from the hole. It was a par four hole. The pain peaked and then started to fade quite a bit. House was the last to play. The foursome made their way down the fairway. As the other three guys made their shots, House pulled out his five iron and leaned on it a bit. The pulled muscle in his right thigh irritated him a bit. _I'm in great shape,_ he thought. _I stretched and limbered up before we started. Didn't notice anything then. _He made the green in two shots. With a birdie on the line, he crouched over the putter with a master's touch and sent the ball into the hole with a _plink_. The other three guys each clapped him on the back and he leaned over to pick the ball out of the hole. He straightened up with a lop-sided grin on his face and threw his right arm up in the air with the ball clenched in his fist. He wheeled around and shouted "Birdie that!" to the beautiful ladies behind them getting ready to tee off on the ninth tee.

House's foursome were all in pretty good physical shape and had chosen to walk the whole 18 holes instead of renting a cart. House turned back around after the little showboating on the ninth hole, and began the walk to the tenth tee. He took a few steps off the ninth green when the pain hit again. This time it hit with a vengeance. He'd had the golf bag looped over his right shoulder. The golf bag hit the ground like a sack of bricks. Golf clubs and balls went flying all over the place. House was still standing but just barely. He hunched over, grabbed his right leg with both hands furiously rubbing what felt like the mother of all pulled muscles. His face was pinched in a grimace that reminded Daniel of a terrible injury he'd witnessed in a college football game. From the look on House's face and the death grip he had on his leg, Daniel knew this was pretty bad. Daniel said "Oh my God, what happened? Why don't you lie down and I'll have a look." Then to the other two guys, Daniel said "Go back to the ninth tee and tell them we have an injury down here. Tell them to call the clubhouse and get a cart down here. He's not going to be able to finish."

Daniel helped House to lie down on the ground and pulled his right pant leg up for a closer look. They were only about a few yards away from the ninth green, but they were headed downhill, and Daniel didn't think House would be able to make it back up the little hill to the ninth green much less all the way back to the ninth tee or the clubhouse. While Daniel stayed with House, the other two guys ran back to the ninth tee. When they saw golfers on the tee, they yelled "FORE!" The first lady in the foursome behind them on the ninth tee had already teed off and the second lady in the group was teeing up her ball. Apparently none of the women heard the two men. "Hey!" they screamed. "Fore! We got a guy down on the ground! Hold your shots!" One guy called the clubhouse and requested a cart and an ambulance. The other guy yelled down to Daniel "FORE! Look out! There's a ball headed your way! " Daniel was kneeling on the ground next to House. He jerked his head up as the ball hit the ground not twenty five yards from them. As badly as House was hurting and as much as the situation seemed to be worsening, Daniel couldn't help but briefly think _Man, that lady has some guns. This is a 225 yard hole._ She'd teed off and hit the ball 200 yards.

House was curled up on the ground, moaning. His clothes and hair were soaked in sweat and he was shivering. Daniel said "Man, did you pull a muscle?" House ground out through gritted teeth, "I must have. Man, I can't move. Oohh, the cramp won't let up!" he cried, looking up into Daniel's face. "Hang on. The other two are getting help.

I can't get your right pant leg up far enough to get a good look. I'm gonna have to cut the pant leg. Hey, you need to go to the emergency room anyway, and the paramedics are gonna have to cut it if you can't pull your pants down yourself. I doubt you wanna pull your pants down out here. So let me cut 'em." Daniel pulled out a pair of scissors from a bag full of spoons, can openers, napkins and other things he'd needed occasionally out on the golf course. As he cut the pant leg he noticed a faint purplish hue to House's lower right leg. The skin on the leg was cool to touch. Daniel checked House's pedal, posterior tibial and popliteal pulses. The pedal and posterior tibial pulses were completely absent and the popliteal pulse was weak. "Your leg's turning purple and the pulses are almost gone. This is not just a pulled muscle."


	2. Arrival in the ER

**A/N – It's been brought to my attention that the infarction details in this story aren't according to canon. I know that. In real life, an event such as what House suffered would have made itself obvious long before four days had gone by. The leg would have shown obvious signs of reduced circulation within the first day or two. Most medical people, doctors or nurses, would have picked up on it within the first day or two. I wrote my fiction based on real-life experiences with the care of patients with vascular problems. Also, I know on the show he was hired after the infarction but for the purposes of my story, I had him already employed by PPTH when the infarction happened. It's fan fiction. I don't pretend that it's according to canon. I just want to keep the characters from the show as in-character as I can.**

**Also, please forgive any formatting problems. For some reason, after I upload my Word documents to fanfiction dot net, some of my line breaks, paragraph breaks and page breaks are getting removed. Paragraphs are running together that should not run together.**

**Ok, with that out of the way, hope you enjoy this next installment! This may be quite a lengthy story.**

"Is there anybody you want us to call?" Daniel asked House while the paramedics were evaluating him on the ground off the ninth green. When the other golfer called the clubhouse, the clubhouse pro called 911, jumped into a cart, and escorted the ambulance crew out to the scene just a few yards away from the ninth hole. The pro hastily got all the other golfers who were still on the front nine off the course while the paramedics attended to House.

"Yeah" House ground out between gasps. "Call my buddy James Wilson." Gasp. "He's a doctor at PPTH." Gasp. "His number's on my cell phone." Gasp. "Cell phone's in my golf bag somewhere." The contents of House's golf bag were littered all over the rough just beyond the ninth green and Daniel's buddy Tim was in the process of gathering everything up. The cell phone was located somewhere near a tree and Daniel called Wilson.

Seeing House's number on the caller ID, Wilson answered "What do you want now, House? Oh and you're buying lunch today, dumbass. It's Saturday so I know you're not at work."

"Um, excuse me, my name is Daniel O'Malley. Your friend asked me to call you. We're at Plainsboro Golf Links and something happened to his leg. I don't know what happened but they're taking him to Princeton General. I gotta go. They have him packed up and ready to go in the ambulance now, and I'm gonna ride along. Bye."

Daniel clicked the phone shut, shoved it in the pocket of what remained of House's jeans, and jumped in the back of the ambulance behind House and the paramedics.

"What happened, sir?" the EMT crew chief asked House, but it quickly became apparent that House wasn't going to be able to answer. They had already started an IV on House and started oxygen through a face mask. House seemed to be having a lot of trouble breathing so, rather than wait for an answer from House, the crew chief continued working on House while the other paramedic turned to Daniel for initial information. "I don't know the guy personally. I do know who he is, though. We needed a fourth and he had signed up in the pro shop to fill in if a fourth was needed. When he signed in at the pro shop, the pro came and got us to let us know we had a fourth. His name is Greg House and as far as I know, everything was fine until we finished up the ninth hole. As he stepped away from the ninth hole on the way to the tenth tee, he just doubled over and grabbed his right leg. He kept saying it was cramping and the cramp wouldn't let up. I'm a vascular surgeon and the other two guys in our foursome are also doctors. He's a doctor too. He heads up the diagnostics department at PPTH." Daniel looked over at House who was pale, gasping, and grabbing his right leg even though they'd already given him enough morphine to kill a horse. His leg was gradually turning bluer. House's oxygen saturation was stable. He stared at House for a moment, trying to figure out why he was having such trouble breathing. Even though House was pretty much lost in his own hellish world of pain, he couldn't help but pick up on the look on the EMT crew chief's face.

"Not….. having…trouble….breathing…..just….hurts….idiot….." House ground out between pants.

Daniel said "Greg, they're taking you to General. I'm on staff there. Your leg is getting more cyanotic by the minute. What luck, you wound up golfing with three vascular surgeons. I called your buddy James. He's on his way."

The ambulance pulled into the ambulance bay in front of the emergency room at Princeton General. Wilson was standing right inside the doors along with half a dozen nurses, doctors, respiratory therapists, radiology technicians, and who-knows-who-else. Although the patient's name wasn't revealed, word had gotten around quickly throughout the ER that the chief of the highly regarded Department of Diagnostics at PPTH was being brought in in some kind of acute distress. Over the years, Greg House had established quite a reputation in the medical community throughout the Northeast. The staff in Princeton General's ER had heard of him long before this. They'd heard he was kind of weird and not very sociable, but his medical prowess was just as legendary as his outrageous behavior, and they wanted to meet him nonetheless. Once the ambulance doors opened, however, Wilson took over and ordered everyone who didn't need to be there to get lost.

As the EMT crew chief and his partner guided the stretcher out of the ambulance, the crew chief gave a quick verbal report to the emergency room attending physician. While the crew chief was talking, the ER physician looked around and recognized Dr. O'Malley. The crew chief continued with his report. "Vitals have been all over the place on the ride over. Heart rate has been about 140 beats per minute, blood pressure about 90 systolic over 40 diastolic, and respiratory rate has been about 30 per minute. He's beyond a 10 on the pain scale. We can't find any pulses in his right foot and the pulse behind his right knee is almost gone. His right leg was slightly blue when we got to the scene and it's a lot bluer now. We've hit him with a total of 10 mg morphine and it really hasn't done anything. We started O2 because of the respiratory distress but he says he isn't having any trouble breathing. He says it's just hurting that bad. He's very diaphoretic and we've given him over a liter of saline through the IV."

Dr. Russell Matherton, MD FACS, was the emergency room attending physician at Princeton General that day. Of course he'd heard of Greg House. Right now all of his attention was focused on the symptoms on display in front of him. The patient's identity, and the fame that went along with it would not influence the kind of care Russell Matherton and the staff at Princeton General would provide. The patient himself could be Joe Blow from the nearest homeless shelter and he would still get the highest level of expertise and professionalism that Russell Matherton MD's department could provide. And right now, Gregory House had a cold, blue leg with no pulses below the knee and needed pain relief and an arteriogram immediately.

Wilson started hovering over the prone form in the stretcher the minute the doors to Princeton General's ER flew open. His professionalism momentarily gone, he wanted to yell "Oh my God, you look awful!" but it only took a few moments for him to regain his composure after seeing the condition his friend was in. "Greg, they're making room for you in radiology right now. I don't know what they're going to do, but I'll sign the paperwork if that's Ok with you" and House nodded Yes. Wilson stepped aside to allow room for Dr. Matherton and the ER nurses to take over House's care. As they transferred him quickly from the ambulance stretcher to the ER bed, with a "One, Two, Three" count, the paramedics wished him good luck and left him in the care of Princeton General's finest ER staff.

While the ER staff performed their initial assessment and Dr. Matherton called radiology to set up a stat CT scan and arteriogram, Wilson stood by helplessly in the background, clutching the remains of House's jeans that had just been cut completely off of him, and House's cell phone. _Stacy! She needs to know. I better call his parents too. _

Wilson's first call was to his CMO at PPTH. His chief medical officer (Wilson's supervisor) didn't answer, so Wilson left a message on his voicemail to let them know that House was ill and neither House nor Wilson would be in to work for the foreseeable future. Wilson called one of the other oncologists in his department to help out with Wilson's patient appointments while Wilson was out. But before Wilson could even hang up the phone, his cell phone beeped that there was an incoming call. The caller ID announced Dr. Lisa Cuddy. _Oh shit, I didn't even think about her. Wonder what she wants._ "Hello, Dr. Cuddy? Listen, hi, it's James. I need to let you go. Greg's at General. Something's wrong with his leg. No, I don't know what. I need to get ahold of Stacy and his parents. I'm staying with him. No, I can't talk now. See ya later. Bye." _Geez, that woman gets in everyone's business, _Wilson fumed. _My boss must have been in Cuddy's office when his cell phone rang. Cuddy probably told him not to answer it. _

_He was probably checking the message and left the speakerphone feature on. Idiot doesn't know how to use a cell phone privately, I guess._


	3. To the OR

Wilson stepped out of Trauma Room 1, out of House's earshot, to make the next two calls. His second call was to Stacy. "Stacy, hi, it's James. I'm Ok but Greg isn't. Listen, something happened to Greg out on the golf course. They said something's wrong with his right leg." "All I know is, they said he doubled over in pain at about the ninth hole, and couldn't walk because it was hurting so bad." "Yeah, the guys he was golfing with are all vascular surgeons on staff at General. One of the guys said his leg was already turning a little blue right there on the golf course. House told them to call me, they did, and I met them in the ER at General." "I have no idea why Greg told them to call me instead of you." "Yeah, I saw his leg. It's pretty blue. I'm not on staff at General so I don't have privileges there. I can't prescribe any of his care there. All I can do is be with him. The guy who rode in the ambulance with him is Daniel O'Malley, and he's pretty good. He's got a big vascular surgery practice there and he knows his stuff." "Yeah, you better come in quick. I'll meet you in the ER waiting room." Wilson clicked the phone off.

_Two down, one to go._

Wilson's third call was to House's parents. He had to tell them something, but he really didn't have any definitive information to give them. Wilson knew that House did not get along with his dad, and probably wouldn't want his dad there, but he felt obligated to at least tell them something was wrong and leave it up to his parents as to whether or not they should come. After all, Greg was their son. On the fourth ring, Wilson's call went to voicemail. _Thank God, I don't have to talk to them!_ "Hi, this is James Wilson. Something happened to Greg's leg. He's in the emergency room at Princeton General. I think they're going to admit him. I don't have any other information for you right now. Call me on my cell phone when you get this message." Wilson clicked the phone off.

Dr. O'Malley was next to emerge from the closed door of Trauma Room 1. He had a disposable gown on, covering his golf clothes, and was wearing disposable gloves. Daniel walked up to Wilson and asked him if Greg had any "significant others" coming in. Wilson said "His next of kin are his parents, and they live in Lexington Kentucky. I called them and left a message. He lives with someone. I called her. I have no idea when she'll be here. What's wrong with him?"

"Matherton will have more information right now than I do. They're packing him up to take him up to radiology as we speak. Matherton ordered a stat arteriogram and a stat CT scan. I think the arteriogram is going to show us something and if it does, we can try an embolectomy or angioplasty right there in radiology or else go to the OR if we have to. I won't know any more until I see the arteriogram. Greg already signed the consents, so we're on our way now." And with that, the door to Trauma Room 1 burst open. House's bed was pushed along rapidly with a _whoosh_ by several nurses, Dr. Matherton and a radiology technician. Cries of "Hold the elevator!" could be heard down the hallway. "We're on our way up to radiology."

On the fifth floor of Princeton General, the enormous radiology suite shared space with several operating rooms. The cardiac cath lab in radiology was right next door to an operating room used for heart surgeries. This was a very nice arrangement, because heart patients usually go to the cardiac cath lab first and if their problem can't be taken care of in there, they have immediate access to the operating room. The room in radiology where they did arteriograms was also located right next to an operating room, for the same reason. Wilson was very impressed with the state of the art equipment and the design of the whole radiology suite. Having an OR within steps of a radiology room was ingenious. It saved patients valuable time when life and limb were at stake.

Wilson was asked to remain in the radiology waiting room while House's arteriogram was done. It broke his heart not to be able to go into the radiology procedure room with House, because if it had been him in there instead of House, he'd want someone he cared about to be with him. In his heart, Wilson only wanted to be with House in that room. Practically, though, Wilson knew that the room was already crowded enough with the patient and his doctors and nurses. He would have his time with House. It just couldn't be right this minute. Wilson bit his fingernails, paced the floor, played with his cell phone, untied and retied his tie, all while anxiously awaiting news from the radiology procedure room.

Inside the radiology procedure room, House was breathing a bit better just knowing that he wasn't going to have to wait for an X-ray behind some other patient with a silly thing like a sprained wrist or something. _Maybe someone really does know triage_, he thought. House didn't know it, but the radiology patient waiting area was full of crying kids, old people who probably had arthritis, and people with various casts on and so forth. Someone really did know their triage. Unlike the way things sometimes ran at PPTH, where big donors sometimes got in line ahead of everyone else, at General if a big donor required a radiology procedure, it didn't necessarily mean that someone else's procedure would get bumped unless it was really medically necessary. House was used to concocting schemes to get his patients' radiology procedures done quickly at PPTH because if he didn't, chances were quite likely that some bigwig with all the bucks would buy his or her way in line ahead of someone else who might actually be sicker.

Well, he was breathing better, but his leg wasn't looking any better. While the radiology technician was hastily disinfecting the skin over his right femoral artery for the arteriogram, House stared anxiously at the monitor as though it would go faster the harder he stared at the screen. Inside the control room, the radiologist and Dr. O'Malley had a quick conference. "You gonna hang around or do you want me to page you when we're done?" asked the radiologist. "I'll stay. I'm gonna call the on-call OR staff and anesthesiologist in case we go to the OR" answered O'Malley.

The radiology technician quickly finished her task and the radiologist and Dr. O'Malley entered the procedure room. The radiologist was dressed in scrubs, disposable shoe covers, a disposable face mask and disposable gloves. Dr. O'Malley had the gown on over his golf clothes. House was plainly terrified. "Get on with it, please!" The radiology technician pre-medicated him, as ordered, with a mild sedative to ease his nerves.

"Dr. House, we're going to numb the skin now. Here goes the lidocaine." Several doses of the numbing medication were injected into the area over his right femoral artery. Once it was sufficiently numb, the radiologist said "Ok, here we go. One, two, three. The sheath is in now." The room lights were dimmed and the monitor lit up brightly. House's leg, and its veins and arteries, were clearly visible on the monitor now. House could see the arterial sheath being advanced through his femoral artery. "One, two, three, here goes the dye now." Flushed with a sudden sensation of warmth, House knew that was a normal sensation but it's still scary for someone who's never experienced it before. Just as quickly as the warm sensation hit, it went away. BINGO. He saw the aneurysm and the clot inside the aneurysm when the radiologist saw it. "Ok, there it is. The aneurysm probably started to rupture and then it clotted. We're going to try an embolectomy now." The radiologist advanced the embolectomy wire through the sheath and pulled the clot out. "We gotta watch you. The aneurysm might re-bleed. If it does, we go to the OR."

House was feeling the effects of the mild sedative the radiology technician had given him through his IV before the procedure started. He was alert enough during the procedure to see the monitor and realize what was wrong, but most of what the radiologist said during the procedure went in one ear, out the other, and never registered in his brain. His limbs were starting to feel like they weighed a ton and the eyelids were almost as heavy. He had to force his eyelids to stay open and look at the monitor. Within a few minutes, his eyelids lost the battle.

"I need pressure now" said the radiologist with thinly disguised panic. "It's ruptured." As feared, the aneurysm re-bled. The radiologist pulled the sheath, clamped a hand down firmly over the bleeding aneurysm, and called out "We're going to the OR." O'Malley double checked the pulses and color of House's leg. The leg was actually a little bit pinker after removing the clot. This might be temporary. It would be VERY temporary if they didn't get the ruptured aneurysm repaired immediately. Despite the panic in the room caused by the ruptured aneurysm, O'Malley knew that the color improvement meant there was still some hope for restoring circulation permanently to House's leg. Time was of the essence. The on-call surgical staff was already assembling in the OR.

The doors between the radiology procedure room and the OR banged open loudly as House was rushed in. House seemed pretty much oblivious to what was going on around him. Thanks to the wonder drugs, morphine and valium, House wouldn't remember the arteriogram or the preparation for the surgery that immediately followed. He wouldn't remember being bodily lifted from the stretcher to the operating room table. He wouldn't remember the anesthesiologist telling him to "count backwards from 100" as he was being given the initial anesthesia. And he wouldn't remember O'Malley saying "Your aneurysm ruptured. I got this. It'll be alright. I'll talk to you when you wake up."


	4. Waiting

**A/N – I do have a medical background, but this isn't a medical primer, it's a work of fiction written by an amateur author, so consider yourself forewarned. I have actually seen the surgical procedures and complications described in this chapter but I don't know if they would do an ultrasound like this in the OR. Oh, and we see Sam too. Within the next few chapters, the focus of the story will change to rehabilitation. **

Soft music was piped in over the speakers in OR number 3. House lay on his back on the operating room table covered in sterile sheets and towels save for a small square area over his right thigh. The needle site where the arteriogram had been done was bruising and oozing blood. After a normal arteriogram, pressure would have been held to the needle site for a certain period of time after the procedure in order to prevent bleeding from the needle stick site. When the aneurysm ruptured, House was rushed into surgery and the radiologist ran alongside House's bed holding pressure to the needle stick site until House was on the operating room table and prepped for surgery.

Dr. O'Malley made the initial incision and clipped the bleeding aneurysm. House's leg pinked up but they were a long way from being out of the woods yet. O'Malley knew this was not going to be a quick procedure and was prepared for the long haul. House would need close monitoring in the OR and quite probably, the aneurysm would still have to be bypassed.

In the radiology waiting room, the radiologist came out to talk with whoever was there for House. Looking over all the crying kids, people with casts on their arms and old people with aching joints, the radiologist saw a brown-haired man who was obviously, at one time earlier today, dressed to the nines, but currently his expensive tie was wrapped and wadded up in his hands. His Brooks Brothers shirt-tails were no longer tucked neatly into the waistband of his dress pants, and the contents of his various pockets were piled up on a table as if he'd been nervously playing with all the little trinkets. Magazines were haphazardly piled up around him. He had been nervously playing with his nice dress loafers, and when the radiologist came into view, Wilson was so anxious for an update that he shot up out of the chair and one of his shoes fell off completely. "How's he doing?" Wilson blurted out.

"He has a femoral aneurysm. The aneurysm had clotted. We tried an embolectomy, but the aneurysm ruptured. Dr. O'Malley has him in the OR now. I don't know any more than that. I'll have the OR staff keep you updated as soon as they are able." The radiologist patted Wilson on the back and said "He's lucky to have you with him. Does he have any brothers or sisters?" Wilson answered "No, just his girlfriend and his parents. Oh, there's Stacy now – that's his girlfriend." Both men saw a nicely dressed woman enter the waiting room. She was running as well as she could in heels and clearly starting to cry. She was wearing a crucifix on a necklace around her neck. The hospital volunteer in the waiting room saw the necklace and asked if the woman needed a priest. "God, no. I need those guys" said the woman, rushing past the volunteer toward Wilson and the man standing next to him who was obviously also a doctor. "Wilson, what in hell's going on? How is he? Can I see him?"

The radiologist escorted Wilson and Stacy to the surgery waiting area right next door. The room looked even warmer and more comfortable than the radiology waiting room, which was nice, considering most of the people who would be using that room would be occupying it for hours at a time waiting on their loved ones in surgery. The trio found the quietest corner in the room and the radiologist spoke first. "I can't really go into a lot of details because honestly I don't have much I can tell you right now. He has an aneurysm in his right femoral artery. There was a clot in the aneurysm. I've seen these kinds of things before. If there's enough collateral circulation, and the aneurysm isn't too big, sometimes we just need to do an embolectomy. We did an embolectomy and the aneurysm ruptured. He's in the OR with Dr. Daniel O'Malley now. The OR staff will update you when they are able. That's really all I can tell you right now. It was a good thing he got attention so quickly. I guess if I could say there was anything lucky about any of this, it was that he wound up with three vascular surgeons on the course with him."

With that, the radiologist left Wilson and Stacy in the surgery waiting room. Wilson no longer felt the need to nervously pace the room and play with everything now that Stacy was here. "God, this is awful. I mean I deal with stuff like this every day as a doctor, but it's a completely different story when bad stuff happens to people I love."

Stacy did a double take when she heard that one, but didn't say anything. Wilson continued, "Geez, I can't stand it that he's in there without you or me. They don't have an observation deck in the OR he's in now. Even if they did, I don't know if I could stand seeing them cut him open."

Stacy said "If they had an observation deck, you know you'd be up there with the intercom on trying to direct everything they're doing. You'd be bossing them around just like he would if he were in your place. Stay out of it and let them do their jobs. Please!" As soon as Stacy uttered those words, Wilson realized she'd stopped her crying and had her lawyer's game face back on. _Ever the pro_, he thought. _She thinks she's the strong one. Talk about bossy. She's the queen of bossy._

"How can you just act like you're back in the office telling one of your clients to sue the ass off someone? You act like this is just business as usual. Trust the doctors, let them do their job, is what you're saying. Geez, that's House in there! *I* said I couldn't stand him being in there alone without either of us. Why aren't you saying the same thing?" Wilson asked.

"Hey, calm down. I'm just as worried about him as you are. I don't want it to look like we're trying to step all over their toes. That's why I said to stay out of it and let them do their jobs. Oh look, someone's coming out now." Stacy and Wilson both looked anxiously at a brunette woman wearing surgical attire, coming their way.

"Hi, are you with Dr. House?" Stacy and Wilson nodded yes. "I'm Anne, one of the circulating nurses in the operating room. He's still in surgery. Dr. O'Malley clipped the aneurysm. They are watching him to check his collateral circulation. His leg pinked up but they're going to be in there awhile longer. I'm scrubbing back in now. One of us will be out to update you again as soon as we are able."

_It's going to be a long, long, long evening,_ thought Wilson. "Are you going to stay? It may be awhile. I can go down and get us some coffees or something to eat if you're hungry," Wilson said. Stacy replied "No, I'm already jumpy enough without the additional coffee and I'm sure as shooting not hungry. I had clients this morning and all I did was down one coffee after another with my clients. Yes, I know it's Saturday. I had to work and Greg went to the driving range at the links. I didn't know he wanted to play 18 holes today. I thought he'd just be at the driving range. He told me he was just going to hit balls at the driving range for an hour or so and then he'd call me about lunch. When I didn't hear from him I called his cell, but he never called back."

"Yeah, he was probably in the ambulance by then," Wilson said instinctively, and then immediately wanted to take those words back. He saw the hurt look on Stacy's face. "Hey, I'm sorry. I don't know why he wanted them to call me instead of you. Let's just focus on him. We can deal with the 'why's' later on."

The short but tense period of waiting in the OR while they re-checked his circulation was over. Something had gone wrong. He had lost the pulses in his right foot again. The pink had gone away, and the skin was turning cyanotic again. "Looks like we're going to have to bypass it anyway," O'Malley said. "Leave him open."

From the OR, Dr. O'Malley ordered an ultrasound of his left leg. They needed to find a vessel suitable to take a piece of in order to bypass the aneurysm in his right leg. The circulating nurse made the call to radiology, and was informed that the original radiologist had gone off duty. His partner in the radiology practice was on call the rest of the weekend, and was on her way in at the moment.

In the surgery waiting room, Wilson got a text message on his cell phone. "Got called in to work. Might be awhile. C U when I get home."

30 minutes later, Dr. Samantha Carr Wilson came in through the employee entrance, up the back elevators, scrubbed up and walked into OR number 3.

"Oh my God, it's House," she said out loud. "You know him?" O'Malley asked. "Yeah, he's my husband's best friend. What are we looking for here? He has an aneurysm?" "Oh, so we're looking for a vessel to take a piece of to use to bypass the aneurysm. Ok, let's get to work." She applied the gel to his left leg and expertly guided the ultrasound over his left thigh. The saphenous vein looked good. His left leg was scrubbed and draped and an incision was made. A section of his left saphenous vein was harvested for use in bypassing the aneurysm in his right thigh. Both thighs would have incisions.

The right femoral arterial aneurysm was bypassed. His lower leg pinked up again, and circulation was double- and triple-checked through the bypass. No leaks, no bleeding, no problems with the clip on the aneurysm. Pulses were all palpable in his right lower leg. And there were no immediate problems in the left leg at the saphenous vein incision. After four hours of emergency surgery, it was time to close House up.


	5. Waking

For a few brief seconds, which House would never remember, the world came swimmingly into view. A nameless face hovered over his. "Hey guy, wiggle your right toes."

Nothing.

"Come on, wiggle your right toes."

_Do what? Oh, yeah. Ok._ The face disappeared into a sea of nothingness again.

Suddenly he felt a tickling sensation running up and down the sole of his right foot. Reflexively, he jerked his right foot back. _Oh SHIT, that HURTS!_

"Sumbitch… stop that…." he slurred. His eyelids suddenly couldn't decide if they wanted to stay open or slam shut again.

"House, you with us?"

"No" was the smartass answer.

"Wiggle your left toes." _Ok, that's easier._

"You're in the recovery room. We got the clot out, the aneurysm ruptured, we clipped it then we bypassed it. It's after midnight. Wiggle your RIGHT toes."

Fearing the tickle again if he didn't comply quickly, he forced his eyelids open long enough to look at his right foot and wiggle his right toes.

An enormous contraption over his legs blocked his view of his feet. It looked like some moron's attempt at building a tent, that didn't quite pass the Boy Scout's tent building test. A metal frame covered the entire foot of his bed. The sheet and blanket lay draped on top of the frame. This presumably was supposed to keep his legs and feet warm while at the same time keeping the weight of the bed linens off his legs. House's mind was running wild, easily outpacing his sluggish, anesthesia-soaked body. _Presumably_, _because nobody is ever warm in the recovery room. It must be some kind of a sadistic requirement somewhere that you can't maintain the temperature inside a recovery room over the freezing mark. Perhaps they're hosting a shivering contest. Let's see what poor, pathetic soul can shiver the longest. _Putting blankets on top of the metal frame over his legs was just worsening the wind tunnel effect.

"Ok, you did it."

_Good. Now leave me alone._

Shivering, and fruitlessly trying to stay warm under blankets fresh from the blanket warmer that only came into contact with the upper half of his body, he felt around for the ubiquitous morphine or Demerol pump that surely must be laying in this bed somewhere.

Oh, if he could only find it without having to open his eyes!

"You're shivering from the anesthesia." _No shit, Sherlock. I'm also naked inside this wind tunnel of a tent over my legs!_

"I need to check your pulses." Fingers gently poked around a dressing over his right groin, and behind his knee, and on top of his right foot. Other fingers did the same on the left leg. O'Malley might just as well have touched him with an ice pick straight from the freezer. It couldn't have been any colder.

"Go 'way" he mumbled from behind the closed eyelids. "I'm freezing. Where's the morphine pump?"

"It isn't morphine. Meperidine is better for the shivering. Your pulses are good. Legs are pink. Here's the pump handle. I'll see you in awhile in the ICU." O'Malley pressed the patient control part of the meperidine pump into House's limp hand, turned around, gave the recovery room nurse specific post operative instructions, and left House's bedside.

Within a few moments, House was snoring from the combined effects of the anesthesia and the meperidine. To protect his airway, it was decided to use a special positive pressure breathing mask normally used for people with sleep apnea. House looked like a defective Transformer, with an Erector-Set kind of metal tent contraption over his legs, the positive-pressure breathing mask over his nose attached to a pump forcing air into his lungs, IVs on either side of him, wires attached to his chest leading up to a heart monitor, a tube draining urine from his manhood, and nurses hovering over him every fifteen minutes using a Doppler ultrasound handheld thingy to listen to the pulses in both of his legs. To the uninitiated, the scene must have looked like the creation of Rocky in the Rocky Horror Picture Show. To everyone else in the recovery room, it was a common, everyday sight.

Dr. O'Malley stopped by the surgery waiting room to update Wilson and Stacy. "He's in recovery and the pulses are good in both of his legs. We bypassed the aneurysm with a piece of the saphenous vein from his left leg. So far, so good. We're going to keep him a bit out of it the rest of the night tonight, so he doesn't move too much, which is why you're going to see a CPAP breathing machine on his nose. We'll let him wake up a little more in the morning. He's going to the ICU in a little while, and they'll check the pulses in both of his legs every 30 minutes or more often if need be. I've already written post op orders and I've instructed the nurses to call me if there are any changes. You can go in and see him now, but just one person and only for five minutes. They're probably going to move him to the ICU within the hour. Don't wake him up if he's asleep."

Stacy made the first move towards the recovery room door. Wilson thought _Yeah, thanks for asking me. I guess I can wait until he gets to the ICU._

Stacy walked through the doors of the recovery room and the only occupants that late at night were House, two nurses and a respiratory therapist, all three of whom surrounded his bed. He looked awful. Stacy touched his hand, then was immediately sorry she'd done that when his eyelids fluttered and he stirred a little. "Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you", she whispered softly.

"Hey there," he replied, not even bothering to open his eyes. He was shivering on one hand, and on the other hand he was almost completely asleep. She had to lean in closely to hear what else he was trying to say. "My leg is on fire."

"Yeah, I bet. O'Malley told us they took the clot out, clipped and then bypassed the aneurysm. Wilson's out in the waiting room. Go back to sleep. I'll see you in the ICU."

House's lips moved, and Stacy leaned in to hear him better. "I'm fucking freezing."

"Nurse, he's cold. Can he have another warm blanket?" Stacy asked. The nurse replied "Sure. Shivering occurs during the process of waking up from anesthesia. There are two reasons for it. First, they keep the temp in the OR pretty cool. When they make the incision, body heat escapes and the person cools down. Second, the anesthetic medication can reset the body's thermostat, and the person shivers when they wake up. It's temporary. The blankets probably aren't helping him too much because of the tent over his legs. We have to keep the linens off his legs. I can warm up his IV fluids. That might help." The nurse put a couple of bags of IV fluid in the blanket warmer on top of the pile of blankets already in there. "A few minutes, and these will be nice and toasty for you."

They both heard a muffled, hoarse growl coming from the skinny, freezing, shivering guy in the bed. "Get the WARM IV fluids NOW!"

When he felt the warm IV fluid coursing through his body a few minutes later, he grinned like a stoner after a nice long toke, mumbled "Tha's more like it", and within seconds, he was down for the count. With House lost to oblivion again, Stacy kissed him goodbye, temporarily, while the nurse packed things up for the trip out of the recovery room to the ICU.

They were at Princeton General, and since neither Wilson nor House had medical privileges there, Wilson didn't know his way around the hospital. While Stacy was in the recovery room with House, Wilson resumed his pacing in the surgery waiting room. When House's bed emerged from the doors to the recovery room, the bed and several IVs were being pushed by several nurses. They were followed by Stacy, the respiratory therapist, and Dr. O'Malley, and Wilson sprang forth to follow the train. He had no idea where the ICU was but he was sure they were going to need help getting onto and off of the elevator, and he was prepared to do whatever he could for his friend.

The ICU was only one floor away. As they emerged from the elevators moving toward the ICU, Wilson ran ahead of them to hold the doors open. Meanwhile, Wilson could feel his cell phone vibrating in his pocket. _What a time for a page_, he thought. After House's bed and the accompanying staff were safely through the doors, he checked his phone. TEXT MESSAGE – Sam. "I'm done. Call me." Wilson pressed DEL, stepped out of the ICU and called her back.

"Sam, hi, listen, I can't really talk right now. I'm at General with House and Stacy."

"Yeah, so was I. I got called in to ultrasound a guy's leg in surgery at General. I had no idea it was House until I walked into the OR. I'm sorry we missed each other. I didn't know you were in the waiting room. I'm actually on my way back home now. What the hell happened?"

"The story's too long and I'd rather not go into it right now. I'm staying the night with him. Stacy's here. I think he's stable right now but I don't know. Stacy was in the recovery room with him for a few minutes and I haven't seen him since the surgery. I'll see you in the morning."


	6. the Infarction

**A/N – I have parted from canon here as far as the Stacy/House relationship goes. I don't remember or care how long they were together before the infarction. In my story, the relationship will end long before it did on the show. There are a few other parts of the story that part with canon because it is necessary to make my story flow better – namely, the whole "medical proxy" issue. In the real world, it's possible but unlikely that a patient like House would sign his right to make medical decisions for himself over to anyone else. Again, though, I'm trying to keep the characters as in-character as possible. I guess you might say this is somewhat AU. Story remains rated M for language – beware! Here is a nice long chapter for you. Infarction, here we come. Next chapter should be up sometime this weekend, but I can't promise when.**

As she kept up her bedside vigil next to her unconscious boyfriend, Stacy couldn't help but dwell on the thought that House was not going to deal well with any of this. She also wondered if she was going to have the strength to be able to deal with him as he recovered from this. House was a control freak. As a college student, he'd been a world-class rower on the rowing team and had been good enough to compete for a chance at the Olympics. He'd needed medical attention several times for musculoskeletal injuries related to athletics. Every new doctor he'd ever seen while he was rowing swore that he was their most difficult patient ever.

Even in college, he'd quickly developed the opinion that he was smarter than most of the physicians he'd come into contact with. This didn't exactly make his recovery from his first surgery, repair of a torn rotator cuff in his left arm when he was 20, a walk in the park. He didn't exactly make friends with the physical therapists after his surgery, either. Physical therapy after repair of a torn rotator cuff can be quite extensive, exhausting and painful. House reliably completed all of the therapy sessions and just as reliably alienated most of the therapists. Stacy didn't know him then, but he'd told her all about it after she shot him in paintball and they had to go to the ER. He had shot her first, and thinking that he'd won, he ripped the helmet off and threw it to the ground in a dance of victory. While he shouted "HAH! I beat your ass!", she squeezed off a shot and hit him on the side of his face. They got to know each other better as she sat with him in the ER while the doctor examined his rapidly-developing black eye. The only reason they went to the ER was because Stacy felt badly about what she'd done, and insisted that they go. While sitting on the examining table with yellow paint in his hair and holding an ice pack to his head, House kept up a string of rude and snarky comments to the emergency room physician examining him. After waiting for hours in the ER waiting room, House was well primed with nasty comments and loaded for bear. As he unloaded on the poor unsuspecting ER physician, Stacy couldn't help but admire this handsome guy's wit. She drove him home from the ER, they continued seeing each other, and several weeks later, she moved in with him. This year marked their five year anniversary, but it had been a difficult last few months. Stacy had always been of the opinion that she should have a ready way out in case a quick exit was called for. She'd been nurturing and developing her way out for the last few months. Her way out was currently living in Short Hills, not awfully far from Princeton. She had been planning on breaking the news to House over lunch today and hadn't planned on missing lunch due to a day spent on the golf course and then in the hospital. Now she was torn between House's needs and her other issue in Short Hills.

Wilson walked in to the ICU and saw Stacy sitting at his bedside, tears rolling down her face, holding House's hand. Her mascara had run all over the place. She looked up at Wilson forlornly. He offered her a hanky and said "Stace, here, wipe your face. Can I sit with him a while? Maybe you want to get some coffee or something?" he said, hoping she'd get the hint and leave them alone for awhile. Stacy stepped out. Once he was sure she was gone, Wilson asked the nurse how House was doing and if he could look at the dressings. The incisions weren't too bad, and would heal quickly. The incision on his right thigh was clean and short, only about two inches long, and the stitches looked good. The same was true of his left leg. Both legs and feet were pink and warm. The metal tent over his legs was there to hold the covers off of his legs, and give the staff quick access so they could check his circulation frequently. Wilson knew that vascular bypass is a routine surgery for older people with circulation problems, but not for a young, otherwise healthy guy. He knew that if no complications ensued, the incisions would heal fine, House would be out of the ICU in a day or so and right back to insulting all the doctors and nurses in no time. He also knew that, especially given the problems House and Stacy had been having in their relationship recently, House's recovery would most likely be the stressor that broke the proverbial camel's back. He doubted that the relationship was solid enough to withstand this.

House's eyelids fluttered open. Through the haze of anesthesia, meperidine and exhaustion, he looked around the room briefly until his vision focused on Wilson sitting next to him. The breathing mask was still on his face. His voice was hoarse and he could barely croak out a whisper because of the air pressure from the breathing mask, so Wilson had to strain a little to hear him growl out "Hey."

From behind his back, Wilson was startled to hear another guy answer "Welcome back to the land of the living. We fixed your leg. You're in the ICU. Wanna hear the details?" Dr. O'Malley walked in looking every bit as tired as anyone else would be at 2 am.

"Not yet. Take this thing off." House could not manage to keep his eyes open, but motioned to the breathing mask on his face. "Not till morning. You need to sleep off the anesthesia. Need to have a look at your legs." O'Malley peeled the covers off the tent and House immediately made a clumsy move to cover his legs up again. "Nope, bud. Gotta look at your legs. I know you're cold. I'll cover you up in a sec." O'Malley felt pulses at all of the points on House's legs, and the incisions looked good. His feet and legs were pink and warm, in sharp contrast to everything else which was still covered in goose bumps and shivering. "Looks good here. The nurses will be checking your legs all night. I'll see you in a few hours. James, Greg, see ya later."

House looked like he was struggling to stay awake, and losing the battle. "Where's Stace?" he mumbled. "I think she's getting a coffee, House. You want her back in here?" Wilson waited for a reply and heard nothing but the droning of the positive pressure breathing machine. House was down for the count again. "Ok, see you when you wake up, Sleeping Beauty," he smiled and drifted off to sleep himself in the chair next to House.

The nurse came in to check his circulation again and put a couple of bags of warmed saline under the covers next to House's chest. She walked softly, in order not to disturb either of the sleeping men. She smiled at the sight of James Wilson draped all over the recliner with his head lolling backwards, drooling and snoring, holding House's hand. Wilson's phone was buzzing off and on in his pocket.

Stacy walked back into the ICU with her coffee and, unlike the nurse, had no hesitation about waking Wilson up when she saw that he was holding House's hand. Almost with a tone of jealousy in her voice, she sneered, "Go home. Your phone's buzzing. Sam needs you more than he does right now. I'll stay with him." Wilson startled awake but managed to keep from waking House up. "Huh, what? Why'd you wake me up?" Wilson muttered somewhat angrily. "They only allow one visitor in here at a time and he's all mine for now. Yours is at home waiting for you," Stacy shot back. Not wanting to wake House, Wilson gathered his things and hauled Stacy out of the room with him. "What's wrong? We're both worried about him. Can't we both be here for him? Why are you sniping at me?"

"Are you fucking kidding me? I saw how you were holding his hand. Are you what he's been doing behind my back? Come on, now. Guys don't hold hands unless they're _Like That_, on the down low_._ Don't tell me. I already know," Stacy shot back as she jerked her purse closer to her, looking for all the world like a deer caught in the headlights. As soon as she uttered those words, she knew what she was going to hear in return.

Wilson spluttered, "WHAT? First off, where do you get off talking to me like that? Guys can be friends. And yeah, guys can hold each others' hands without it being any more than just that. It's called BEING SUPPORTIVE. Which is something you don't know too much about. Secondly, I don't know his name but I know something is going on in Short Hills. House does too. House got the toll booth bills and the bills from a gas station and a motel in Short Hills. You've been gone a lot lately. He keeps asking me if I would know why you keep driving to Short Hills every few days. I'm not stupid and he's not either. If you're cheating on him, this is not the time to tell him. You should just leave now. You can tell him later when he's better."

"Wilson, I really don't know what to do. I've screwed this up so badly," Stacy buried her head in her hands and cried. "I met a guy in Short Hills. This is such a screwed up mess. I still love Greg. I love Mark. Greg and I had great times together. He's so brilliant, funny, and talented. Greg, that is. But Mark loves me too. Mark asked me to marry him. I don't know what I want…"

"Stace, this shouldn't be about what you want right now. This is NOT the time to tell House you're leaving, if that's what you decide to do. He may have already figured it out by now. I can't tell you what to do. Maybe ask your shrink or something. All I can do is tell you I'm staying here with him. If you're feeling guilty about cheating on him, I can't absolve you. Maybe you should just leave. I won't tell him anything unless he asks. If he's already figured it out by now, he won't ask. I gotta go. I'm going back in there with him", Wilson replied.

Wilson left a silent and slightly stunned Stacy sitting alone in the ICU waiting room. Within minutes, the waiting room was empty.

She left a surprise clipped to a windshield wiper on Wilson's car.

Wilson stretched a few times on his way back into the ICU, wondering what, if anything, he would say to House when House realized Stacy was probably not coming back.

House was awake, but not by much. His nurse removed the bi-pap breathing mask, and he was breathing oxygen through a little tube in front of his nose without any trouble. House looked around a bit and briefly ran down his IVs and the other stuff attached to him. _Let's see. Heparin drip. Arterial line. Useful since I guess they'll be drawing a lot of blood. What's that little bag up there? Some kind of antibiotic? What? Do I have an infection? Don't think so. Nope, not an antibiotic. Must be ranitidine, to prevent an ulcer. Yeah, that's it. Can't get an ulcer while I'm on heparin. Where's the pain pump thingy? The thingy I push with my thumb? Meperidine, right? Oh, there it is. The cage over my legs. Yeah, I expected that._

Next, he ran down his body. _Upper body works fine. Little Greg, he's a little sore from the catheter. Legs, yeah, both there. Dressings on both of them. That's not good. Wiggle toes on both feet? Hope I can. Can't see. The damn tent is in the way. Everything's there; that's good…_and then sleep claimed him again.

Wilson plopped back down in the recliner next to House's bed as House fell asleep again. _The man can't even sleep when he's soaked in anesthesia_, Wilson thought as he saw House moving all his extremities a little, obviously giving everything a bit of a check-up even in his sleep.

An hour or so later, Wilson felt something hitting him in the arm. His head had lolled to one side in the recliner and he was drooling. He startled awake when House started tapping his arm repeatedly. "You're drooling all over the place. Mop your face up and help me see my legs. I can't feel my right foot," House said with thinly disguised worry. Warning bells in the back of Wilson's mind became 5 alarm sirens. Wilson jumped up and quickly pulled the covers off the metal frame on House's bed.

The nurse and Wilson stared intently, with obvious concern, at three toes on House's right foot which were a little dusky and cooler to touch than the rest of his foot. "Dr. House, how many fingers am I touching your foot with?" the nurse asked, touching the sole of his foot with one finger. "I just told you, I can't feel my foot. You could be stabbing it with a dagger and I wouldn't know. Get Dr. O'Malley." House was beginning to panic.

The nurse picked up the Doppler handheld ultrasound wand and checked the pulses in his right leg. Femoral pulse was there. Popliteal pulse behind his right knee was gone. Gone. The pedal and posterior tibial pulses, lower in his leg, were also gone. House could hear the absence of pulses on the Doppler. _Oh Shit. _His right thigh was more swollen than it had been during the last pulse check, thirty minutes ago. _Bleeding. Or compartment syndrome. Shit, shit, shit. I can't feel my right foot. My right thigh, where the incision is, is on FIRE. It feels like it's about to split open! Help me!_

Dr. O'Malley returned the page. "Oh no. Call the OR and page radiology STAT. We need another arteriogram and we're probably going to have to open him back up. Get the consents signed. I'm on my way back in."

Wilson called Sam. "You still on call? Yeah? They're calling you back in. Yeah, it's House. I'll let you go. I'll see you in a few."

Thirty minutes later, the doors to the radiology exam room banged open as House's bed was pushed through. House's eyes were wide open, glued to Wilson. Both hands were clenched, white-knuckled, around the bed rails. _No pulses. The tissue is dying._

"House, come on, let go so they can get you on the x ray table," Wilson said gently, prying House's hands off of the bed rails. "I know you're nervous. So am I. Sam's back. It's gonna be alright." As soon as he uttered those words, Wilson wondered, _how many times have I said that to any of my patients, and it hasn't been alright? I can't believe I just said that._

House looked up at Sam, trying not to cry. "Don't lie to me. Tell me what you see. I can't see the monitor from here."

As Sam began his second femoral arteriogram in less than 24 hours, the cause became apparent very quickly. One of the anastomoses (where the vein graft was sown to the femoral artery) was bleeding. A huge hematoma was forming around the bypass site. Judging from the size and the speed with which it was expanding, plus his symptoms, Sam knew the only option was surgical repair of the bleeding vessel and drainage of the hematoma. They couldn't wait for it to stop bleeding on its own because the rapidly expanding hematoma was cutting off the circulation to the rest of his leg. "House, one of the anastomoses is bleeding and the resulting hematoma has cut off the circulation to the rest of your leg. O'Malley's in the OR now. They're gonna fix this."

"Bleeding? How the fuck can it be bleeding? Somebody doesn't know how to suture an arterial anastomosis properly? What the hell, did he let a student do it? Wilson! Come in with me! Make sure they don't fuck it up again this time!" House cried.

As the rest of the group pushed House's bed into the OR, Wilson came face to face with Dr. O'Malley in the OR prep room, at the sink. "I'm scrubbing in," Wilson demanded. "No, you're not. You're not on staff here," O'Malley replied. "I'm a physician licensed in the state of New Jersey. This is my friend. I'm scrubbing in. I might not do the surgery but I'm scrubbing in," Wilson retorted with authority.

The anesthesiologist had already given House some medication to calm his nerves as they moved him onto the operating table. House always wondered what sadistic masochist came up with the unwritten rule that patients had to be awake when moving over to the operating room table. Why not knock them out beforehand? Who wants to remember that? The door from the OR prep room swung open with Dr. O'Malley in the lead and Dr. Wilson following closely behind, both freshly scrubbed with their arms and hands up in the air. The circulating nurse helped Dr. O'Malley gown and glove, and looked questioningly between O'Malley and Wilson. "Gown and gloves for him too, please," O'Malley said.

As soon as House was completely anesthetized for the second time in less than twenty four hours, O'Malley reopened and slightly enlarged the original incision. Bright red blood came spurting out and the bleeder was quickly located and fixed. The hematoma was then evacuated. Closer examination of the surrounding tissue revealed a sickening sight. The muscle immediately below the site of the bleeding anastomosis, which should have been red, was blue. Wilson stuck his head in closer for a better look. After the repair of the bleeding anastomosis and evacuation of the hematoma, the blue muscle tissue should have pinked up. Some of it was. The three toes that had previously been a little dusky did pink up. Pulses that had been absent were now present. However, the muscle tissue in his thigh, immediately below the anastomosis, remained blue as it could be and was not pinking up. His thigh muscle was dying. All they could do, now that the circulation was restored for the second time, was watch and wait. The minutes ticked by in the OR. The incision remained open and anxious heads watched the muscle tissue and all the monitors. If anything, the thigh muscle before their very eyes was turning even a little more cyanotic.

Everything kicked into high gear in the OR. O'Malley had one of his partners in vascular surgery paged STAT. Another bypass was attempted in order to save the dying thigh muscle. Wilson scrubbed out and called Lisa Cuddy, no doubt ensconced comfortably in her nice warm bed. "Lisa, House is crashing in the OR here at General. Who's on call for vascular surgery at PPTH?" "Archevsky? Great. Got her phone number? I need her over here now." Wilson heard a few papers rustle and things crashing all around Lisa as she probably jumped out of bed, knocking things over, in her haste to get the phone number for him. "Here's the number. I'll meet you over there ASAP," Lisa cried into the phone.

O'Malley was faced with the terrible prospect of having to remove the cyanotic, dying muscle tissue right then and there. If they left it in, it would be a matter of waiting and seeing if the muscle would rebound from this latest loss of circulation. If they left it in, it might recover and then again, it might not. While it was dying, the dying muscle tissue was releasing toxins into House's blood stream even while he was on the operating room table. The risks included multiple organ failure and the death of the patient. The quicker they could arrest the muscle death, the lower the risk of organ failure and death.

O'Malley's partner was the first "second opinion" doctor to arrive in the OR. "I think you should remove it. It's dead," was his opinion.

Wilson said, "His vital signs are stable. Can we wait a little while longer on the OR table? I have Archevsky from PPTH coming over. I want another opinion before you resect it."

Ready at this point to welcome a third and even a fourth opinion, if need be, O'Malley said "Yeah, let's give it a little while longer. We can't keep him open like this forever but if Archevsky can help, I'm willing to wait a little while longer."

About thirty minutes later, Archevsky marched through the OR doors. The circulating nurse helped her gown and glove. She craned her neck in to have a close look. "Geez. It's not dead, but it sure doesn't look salvageable to me. I see the original bypass. His distal pulses are good?" she asked as she looked at the second arteriogram and then at his feet. "Ok, and the second bypass is holding – it's not leaking?" she asked, more to herself than anyone else. O'Malley answered "No" and Archevsky said "I don't see any leaking. Wow, there's a lot of blue muscle tissue here. Are there any stenoses in the other vessels? I know he was bleeding and I know he was on heparin but could he have a clot somewhere you just haven't found? Mind if I have a look?" O'Malley said "Go ahead."

A few minutes after Archevsky began her examination of the surgical wound and double checked the arteriograms, she said "I don't see any clots. Most likely it's compartment syndrome. The necrotic muscle was right under the hematoma. I think it's too far gone to survive. I agree with you. I think you should debride it now."

Wilson was first to state the problem that was also on O'Malley's mind. "He signed consents for an arteriogram, exploration of the surgical site, evacuation of possible hematoma and another possible bypass. That's all. His parents are still on their way in from Lexington. He has no next of kin here. His girlfriend is no longer here at the hospital and he never assigned Durable Power of Attorney for Health Care **(A/N – this is the so-called "medical proxy") **to anyone else. We aren't going to be able to reach his parents as they're enroute. Right now, there is nobody to sign consents for him."

"I'm going ahead with presumed consent. If we don't resect this dead muscle tissue, the whole patient could follow pretty soon," O'Malley announced.

Two hours later, House woke up in the recovery room again. He cast an awkward and stiff look downward to the foot of his bed, and was relieved to find both legs and feet still intact. That relief was short-lived, as he instinctively tried to wiggle his right toes and was hit in a full head-on collision with a kind of pain he'd never imagined was possible. Knives were cutting him. Bolts of electricity were shooting up and down his leg. For a wild moment he thought he was still on the operating room table and they were using electro-cautery on him. As he screamed and made a clumsy grab for his thigh with both hands, Wilson and Dr. O'Malley gently held both hands down. "House," said Wilson. "House. You're in recovery. Open your eyes." His eyes shot open with a look of wild, unadulterated fear and pain. "Most of your thigh muscle was cyanotic and some of it was necrotic. You had a hematoma and compartment syndrome." O'Malley spoke in short sentences with a calm voice. House's level of awareness was still questionable but the pain was obvious. "We're going up on the Demerol. You're getting more right now. Let's get your pain under control and we'll talk later."

As the meperidine booster injection took effect, some of the rigidity disappeared and so did the wild, pain-filled expression in House's eyes. One word lingered in House's mind as he relaxed back into the hospital bed. "Was." _Did he say "Was?" It "Was" necrotic. Means it is either no longer necrotic or it is no longer there. _That anxious thought was the last thing in House's mind before he surrendered, again, to the lingering effects of anesthesia.


	7. Shock waves

**A/N – many thanks to my readers for the kind reviews! I'm a nurse pretty well versed in medical jargon, which is partly why I enjoy the show. My stories tend to be laden with medical stuff because it's what I know. So I'm sorry, but there won't be much in the way of soap opera fluff in this story. We're past the medical complications and starting to deal with pain management. In the next couple of chapters we'll start delving into the interesting world of rehab – something House, on the show, seems to have been reluctant to cooperate with. We're gonna delve into how rehab fits or doesn't fit into his world. This chapter contains several F bombs so yes, the M rating is still in effect!**

A few hours later, back in the ICU, House was wide awake and scared to death. Movement of any other part of his right leg besides his toes brought an instant and agonizing protest from the rest of his leg. Dr. O'Malley was there explaining everything to one very bitter and angry patient.

"What the fuck do you mean, the anastomosis bled? How the fuck do you screw up a simple vascular anastomosis? A surgical resident could do it with his eyes closed!" House yelled. "This meperidine isn't doing anything. How much do you have me on?" he asked, clenching his eyes shut and gripping the side rails for all he was worth.

O'Malley had no answer to the question about why the anastomosis bled. Sometimes they do. That's a risk associated with the surgery, but no patient who has had the complication wants to hear that. It's explained to the patient preoperatively, but most preop patients who are having circulatory emergencies don't really listen to the potential complications of surgery, O'Malley realized. House was lucky that it was caught before he'd suffered permanent damage to the rest of his leg, but the damage that he'd suffered to his thigh muscle at this point was bad enough. House had just woken up sufficiently to have this conversation with O'Malley, and nobody had told him yet that they'd had to remove a sizable portion of his thigh muscle. O'Malley took a deep breath.

"Dr. House. You had a pretty sizable hematoma in your thigh. We repaired the leaking anastomosis and evacuated the hematoma. The pressure from the hematoma cut off the circulation to your thigh and most of your leg. When we evacuated the hematoma, the rest of your leg pinked right up but a large portion of your thigh muscle didn't. Dr. Wilson was there with me. I called in a second opinion and Dr. Wilson called in a third opinion from Archevsky at PPTH. We waited as long as we could for your thigh muscle to pink up but it didn't. We couldn't risk further necrosis. We had no choice but to resect the dead and dying muscle tissue."

Deep inside, House knew that this was a risk from the very beginning. In fact, he knew that complete amputation was also a risk. Objectively, he knew that evacuation of the hematoma was what saved the rest of his leg. Subjectively, he wanted to throttle Dr. O'Malley right then and there. Objectively, he knew that this was not the time to play the blame game because what was done was done and blaming someone was not going to reverse the damage done. He was going to have to find the wherewithal to recover from this. Subjectively, he wanted to ball up all of his rage and all of his pain and hurl it with all his strength at Dr. O'Malley and tell him to go to hell.

House said "At least give me some more meperidine or SOMETHING. You all keep asking me what my pain is on a scale of one to ten. It's about a twenty five. The more you irritate me the worse it's getting. For God's sake, do something!" he yelled. Due to some mild residual anesthesia, he wasn't quite as alert as he would be normally and he temporarily forgot for the third time what the consequences were for trying to move his leg just a fraction. He tried to flex his knee a fraction of an inch so he could get a better view of his incision and mother nature reminded him instantly how much of a mistake that was.

The combination of cyclical pain, exhaustion, and anger left him at a loss for words. He couldn't yell anymore. He could barely talk. The pain was coming in cycles. He couldn't wrap his mind around it. The control freak had finally met his match; something he couldn't control. All he could do was lay there anticipating the next cycle and sweat it out when it hit. As soon as he'd crested the wave of one cycle, he surrendered to exhaustion, but he barely had time to relax completely before the next cycle hit. His heart was hammering away in his chest, and everyone except the patient involved noticed the rapidly increasing heart rate and blood pressure on his monitors. "House, calm down." Wilson said calmly. "They're giving you more meperidine now and if that doesn't work they can give you something else."

House looked at Wilson with eyes that said everything. Wilson could read him plain as day. "It's not helping. I can't help it," House muttered plaintively, pleading with a God he didn't believe in to just make it all go away.

Fifteen tense minutes later, O'Malley realized with regret that they should have given House an epidural before the first surgery. Pain control, at least during the recovery phase, would be a lot easier with an epidural. The logistics of inserting an epidural catheter at this point were daunting, but still worth considering. If the meperidine didn't help, he would call the anesthesiologist.

By 4 am he was maxed out on the meperidine and not anywhere close to achieving adequate pain relief. He'd have short periods of rest, maybe 20 minutes, followed by the same wild rollercoaster ride. He'd learned to anticipate every single hill. Most of the time the pain was exacerbated by the need to move. As long as there was no need to move, if he could lay there straight as a board on his back, the pain was always there but still manageable. However, the human body is not meant to lie still in a bed. The butt gets sore, the heels get sore, joints get stiff, and you have to move. Sooner or later, he had to move. Before Wilson's eyes, the man in the bed transformed from slack peacefulness to utter terror, in pain beyond description, within minutes. Wilson could tell that the cycles were coming about every twenty to thirty minutes. Every time, the cycle seemed to start whenever House tried to scratch an itch or move even just a fraction of an inch. Every time he stirred, the nurse tried to help him to a more comfortable position but it was all to no avail. Within seconds he was trembling, sweating, gasping, and begging anyone who would listen to knock him out.

"This isn't working," he panted to Wilson. "I can't do this. Do something. Page anesthesia. Get a hammer and knock me the hell out. Anything. I can't take this anymore."

Dr. Anderson, the on-call anesthesiologist, came up when Dr. O'Malley called the consult. "45 year old male, one day post op repair of clotted femoral aneurysm with bypass. Anastomosis leaked, developed hematoma, repaired the leak and evacuated hematoma. Developed acute muscle necrosis due to the hematoma. Required debridement and removal of the entire vastus lateralis, about 50% of the vastus intermedius, and about 50% of the rectus femoris. Post-op pain not controlled with an initial 12.5 mg meperidine bolus and 25 mg meperidine an hour via continuous iv infusion. Has required several 25 mg meperidine boluses. Meperidine was used because of post-op shivering. Patient typically rates his own pain higher than ten on a ten scale."

"He needs an epidural. Why didn't he get one before the first surgery? Were there any contraindications?" Anderson asked, wondering why in hell the anesthetist who handled the original anesthesia for the first surgery didn't do the epidural then. Anderson made a mental note to ask the anesthetist about that.

"No. It was not even considered. We didn't anticipate the post-op complications," O'Malley answered, a bit regretful now that they hadn't done the epidural during the first surgery.

Anderson stated firmly, "Well, he needs one now. Are there any reasons why we can't position him on his side for the epidural?"

O'Malley replied "No. The anastomosis repair went well and his distal pulses are good. I don't see any reason he couldn't be positioned for the epidural. No reason we can't use ativan or valium or something like that to prep for the epidural."

20 minutes later, the epidural consent was signed and House was out like a light courtesy of another wonder drug - Vitamin A (Ativan). Completely lost to oblivion again, he was positioned on his side for the epidural. Anderson swore from here on out to make certain that patients were better educated preoperatively about their analgesia options. Had House been his patient to begin with, the poor guy wouldn't have had to suffer these rollercoaster pain cycles for hours on end, and Anderson felt so badly for him. Some degree of post-op pain is to be expected and it's usually temporary. But when most of an entire muscle group is removed, it must be anticipated that pain control will be an issue. Nobody should have to suffer to the point where the pain consistently exceeds a ten on a one-to-ten scale.

John Anderson MD was head of the pain management service at Princeton General. Unbeknownst to either Wilson or House, Lisa Cuddy had actually contacted Dr. Anderson a few weeks ago and set up an appointment for a meeting to discuss joining the pain management service at PPTH. Anderson's pain management service at General used innovative techniques and protocols that Dr. Cuddy was eager to see implemented successfully at PPTH. Anderson jumped at the chance to assume management of Dr. House's post-op pain. With the degree of muscle removed there would undoubtedly also be some degree of nerve damage. House would also have a fair degree of permanent disability in the right leg because a significant amount of muscle had been lost that is normally required to stabilize, flex, and extend the hip during ambulation. Restoring mobility would require training smaller, weaker muscles to take over some of the load, and would probably mean some degree of muscular pain in the remaining thigh muscle. Long term, House would probably be looking at a significantly increased risk of degenerative joint disease in the right hip and knee. Anderson suspected that House would need extensive post-op chronic pain management. House would be an ideal candidate for the innovative pain management program he'd developed at Princeton General. Knowing what he did about House (which, right now, was limited to what he knew from physical examination, review of House's chart, and innuendo that he'd heard over the years), Anderson suspected that he'd have his work cut out for him in order to garner the trust and cooperation of this most unique, interesting man.


	8. Feeling

House awoke from the Ativan-induced nap to the wonderful sensation of lying comfortably on his side. He was lying on his left side. There was a pillow comfortably positioned between his right and left legs. For the first time since the initial surgery, the pain was tolerable. In fact, for the first time since this disaster he could say it was more of a discomfort than a pain. If asked to rate it on a ten scale, for the first time all night he could say it was about a four. There was no post-op pain in his left leg where they'd taken the saphenous vein graft.

_Epidurals are amazing_, House mused with a sleepy grin. _They should be standard issue. Everyone needs one._

House knew that, unlike epidural anesthesia, where there is no feeling or movement below the level of the injection after the anesthetic agent is injected, with epidural analgesia, the patient still has feeling and can still move the lower half of the body normally. He also knew that the benefits of epidural analgesia generally include better pain control on a lower dose and the effects tend to last longer. It just now occurred to his increasingly alert and less-distracted mind that he could have asked for an epidural before the first surgery. _But patients should be able to trust that when they go to surgery, their anesthetist would offer them that choice before it becomes necessary. _House realized that his bullshit detector must still be flipped off or he would have remembered long ago that even doctors and nurse anesthetists can lie by omission; even when it's an accidental omission, a lie is still a lie.

Now that he was less distracted by pain, he could focus at least a little bit on assessing his own body, system by system. This he could control. _Ok, let's go head to toe. Brains – not scrambled. That's always good. IV in one hand – I see the heparin drip. I wonder how much I'm on. Gotta find out. Arterial line in the other wrist. Kinda hurts, 'cause I can't bend my wrist with the arterial line in, but it's better than getting stuck every hour. Pulse oximeter on my finger. Makes me feel like ET when he pointed to the heavens with the red light on the end of his finger saying ET Phone Home. Chest and stomach – fine, I guess, but taking a dump is sure gonna be a lot of fun with no food in me and narcotics slowing everything down. Well, I'll cross that bridge when I come to it. Legs. Now that's another matter. Let's see. Big ass dressing on right thigh, little tiny one on left thigh. Wound vac in right thigh. Oozing a little bit, not too bad. Dressing needs changing. Yippee. Maybe if I don't say anything they'll hold off awhile. Mmmm, epidurals are great. Tent thingy still over my legs. At least I'm warm now. I can feel both feet. Gotta remember to ask how much heparin I'm on._

"Wilson."

"Yeah, what?" came the tired reply from the recliner next to his bed.

"Go home. I'm fine. I can feel the rays of your caring bearing down on me in my sleep. Ask the nurse to come in. I need to find out how much heparin I'm on."

"House."

"Yeah?"

"Go to sleep. Why do you care how much heparin you're on? It's not like if you think about it hard enough, you can control the dose anyway. Forget about it and go to sleep. Enjoy your epidural while it lasts."

House replied "I can see everything except the IV pump that the heparin is running through. Turn it around so I can see the programmed dose."

Wilson said "Yes, Your Majesty. Here. See it? Good. Stop obsessing about it now."

House sneered, "see these little red stains on my dressing? Gee, doesn't _HEPARIN_ do that? What was my last PTT?"

"House, I don't know for God's sake! You just had two major surgeries in the same area in less than twenty four hours. The incision is big. It's going to ooze. A few little red stains are nothing to worry about and you know that. You need the heparin or else you'll throw more clots. Give it a rest. When the nurse comes in, if you're asleep, which you better be, I'll ask her what the last PTT was. But I'm not going to bother them now just because you won't let it alone."

House thought about it a minute, then slyly made an awkward move for the IV pump to pull it close enough to him so he could read the dose history stored in the machine's memory. "1200 units per hour," House muttered.

"I can't stay on this forever. I just had an arterial anastomosis that bled, and a huge hematoma. What a trade off. I need the heparin because of the clotting in the first place, but I risk bleeding to death now if the anastomosis rebleeds. Or if I get an ulcer. Protamine is the antidote for heparin, but if they have to give me protamine, I risk throwing more clots. I need to know my last PTT."

Wilson begrudgingly got up and went out to the nurse's station. "I hate to bother you all about this. You've been so good and he's not the easiest guy to deal with. He wants to know his latest PTT. He's asked like about a billion times. He thinks he's on too much heparin. Trust me, he's not going to let this go. Could you please look up his latest labs? You might as well tell him all of his labs, 'cause he's going to want to know."

The nurse came in cheerfully with a stack of lab printouts. "You're on 1200 units an hour of heparin. We check PTTs but we also check Anti-Factor Xa levels – Heparin Assays – every six hours. These are all your labs. Your last Factor Xa was 0.41. That's the first one that has been within therapeutic range, so the dose stayed the same. If the next Factor Xa is within normal range too, we will leave you on 1200 units an hour and cut down on the blood drawing to once a day."

House looked at her narrowly. He'd always professed the belief that nurses weren't much good for anything other than butt wiping, but then again, he'd never had to rely on nurses for meeting his every little need. Thank God he didn't know any of the nursing staff at Princeton General. These people knew their stuff and, he had to admit, might have something to teach his fellows. First, though, a test was in order. A pop quiz, if you will. "So what's with the red oozing through on my dressing? Should I worry about that?"

Again, this nurse responded quite differently than any he'd ever met at PPTH. Perhaps he'd browbeaten and cried Wolf at the nurses at PPTH too many times. None of them wanted anything to do with him. If he'd asked the nurses at PPTH a question like this, the chances of getting any kind of answer were pretty slim. So far, though, every nurse he'd met at General seemed to be completely unafraid of and unthreatened by his nurse-unfriendly reputation. Her reply was "Not at this point. Some oozing is expected. The original incision had to be reopened and enlarged. As long as it's just a slow ooze and nothing else is bleeding, we'll just watch your aPTTs and heparin assays. You know there's a wound vac there, right? The wound vac is to prevent another hematoma from forming. If there is any more notable internal bleeding, it'll collect in the wound vac and we'll spot it right away. The wound vac is fine. There's a little bit of bloody fluid in it but nothing to worry about."

House smiled to himself. Operation "Test-The-Nurse" was a success. If his departmental budget included any nursing positions, he'd hire these folks in a heartbeat.

Wilson cracked a smile. "Ok, so now that you're going to STOP obsessing about the heparin, don't start looking for something else to obsess about. Go to sleep or else I start singing Barry Manilow's 'Mandy' until you shut up."

House closed his eyes, quite happy in the temporary respite from pain that the epidural provided. Within a few minutes, the gentle snoring coming from his bed was proof enough that he wasn't just pretending to sleep anymore.

Wilson had too much on his mind to be able to go back to sleep; even if he went back home, which he knew he should, it was doubtful that even a romp in the sack with Sam would tire him out enough to get a decent amount of sleep. Even if she wanted a romp in the sack with him, it wouldn't be like it was when they were first married, anyway. His relationship with Sam had been on the rocks for some time now. He knew that relationships were always a two way street and it always took two to make and two to break a relationship. He and Sam had not been intimate with each other much lately; more because he felt like Sam didn't trust him. Not that he hadn't given her reason to mistrust him, but still, wasn't there some way to prove that he was being faithful to her now? Wasn't there some way to prove to her that he'd changed his cheating ways? Would Sam always and forever more see him as a cheating bastard who could no longer be trusted? He'd like to think that he could earn her trust again. He just wasn't sure how long he'd have to be faithful before she really believed him. And frankly, he was beginning to doubt that she was worth the effort. All this time spent with House was sure to raise Sam's suspicions again. On several occasions in the past, she'd actually come out and asked him directly if he had ever cheated on her with House. Wilson had to admit that while he and House were really just close friends, it was interesting that Sam would think there was more to this bromance than just friendship.

Wilson found that the more he thought about it, the more he enjoyed knowing that Sam must be at home stewing over the fact that Wilson obviously was more interested in supporting House than he was in saving the relationship with his own wife.

Wilson found himself staring at House's sleeping form and wondering how much House's life was going to change as a result of the disabling surgery. He wondered what was going through House's mind. Not that House would ever bring it up himself, but surely he must be concerned about more than just the heparin dose. It was so typical of House to obsess about numbers but when it came to feelings and emotions, he would just clam up completely. _House must be scared to death. If I bring it up to him, though, he'll tell me to go to hell. If I leave it up to him to bring the subject up, he never will. I wonder if he has any idea what kind of an uphill battle his rehab is probably going to be? I wonder if it's occurred to him that the disability might be permanent? Geez, the guy needs to talk about this. I wonder if any of that has even occurred to him yet. So far all he talks about are the numbers. The heparin dose, the lab results, his heart rate, his blood pressure. Things he can see. Things he can measure. I've been his friend for all this time and even I have no idea how to talk about feelings with him. I mean, guys don't talk about this touchy-feely stuff, but the only person whom he ever would have talked about this stuff to was Stacy and she's obviously gone now. So how do I do this?_


	9. Cuddy

Rehab chapter 9

**A/N – Apologies to all you Huddies. I do think the Cuddy character is interesting and should remain a part of the show because she used to be a good foil for House. As a romantic couple, though, House and Cuddy simply no longer have the appeal to me that they once did. My feelings about that relationship will be quite apparent in this chapter. Cuddy needs to make an appearance in this story and we'll get that out of the way in this chapter. This continues to be a bit AU because I believe in the show the infarction happened a long time before Chase, Cameron and Foreman were hired. **

House had a clock in his ICU cubicle but not a calendar. His cell phone battery had long since died. There was something about an ICU atmosphere that made the patients generally stop caring what day it was. The lights were on so long that it was very difficult to tell if it was morning or evening, and the lack of windows to the outside made it impossible to tell if it was day or night. The clock told what time it was, but not if it was AM or PM. So days kind of tended to blend together with no real sense of what day it actually was. By day three, House had stopped caring what day it was. He was still too sick to care about anything besides his own situation.

As he had expected all along, the dead and dying thigh muscle had released enough myoglobins to cause rhabdomyolysis and acute kidney failure. Thank God they caught it in time and removed the necrotic muscle before his kidneys completely shut down for good, but this was bad enough. His kidneys were shot but the kidney failure was not expected to be permanent – or so some guy from nephrology had told him. House himself had a double specialty in nephrology and infectious disease, but right now he was so messed up with depression, the altered thought processes that go along with acute renal failure, and heavy doses of narcotics that he couldn't diagnose the common cold if it marched right into his room and sneezed on him. He was currently teetering on the brink of needing dialysis. He knew, somewhere in all the cotton and gum that currently occupied his mind, that dialysis would probably be temporary, but he couldn't really think clearly enough to focus too much on that concern. He knew that somewhere in the vast maze of tubes and dressings on his body there was a dialysis catheter that had been inserted during his second surgery, because of the anticipation of needing dialysis, but for the life of him, he couldn't remember where the dialysis catheter was. He also knew that the tube in Little Greg hurt like hell and _why did they even bother leaving it in; after all there wasn't a whole lot of pee coming out of it_ and what pee there was looked like coffee.

Even if his fellows came to visit, he was too sick and not thinking clearly enough to care about their current cases or anything else for that matter. His current fellows were nearly ready to matriculate out of the fellowship, as they'd reached the end of their third year and the fellowship only lasted three years. House had been enduring the hated process of interviewing new fellowship candidates when fate threw this cog in the wheel. He'd already interviewed Robert Chase and when Chase's dad called, House decided to hire Chase. Chase had, in fact, already started his fellowship with House but he was still new enough that House hadn't had a chance to really test him yet.

Alison Cameron had been in for her initial interview. She was on his short list to call back for a second interview, but again, fate stepped in before he could call her back. He'd already started referring to her as "Cameron" even though she hadn't been hired yet. She didn't even know she was being called back for a second interview. Someone needed to call her back and do the second interview, but at this point, it obviously wasn't going to be House.

Eric Foreman was still just a label on a file on top of hundreds of files sitting on House's desk.

Cuddy stopped by to check on him. Lisa Cuddy, MD. Hospital Administrator, Dean of Medicine, and the biggest busybody at PPTH. She was one of three female hospital administrators in the country. She was not House's boss, contrary to what she told everyone who would listen. She was House's boss' boss. To people who didn't work at PPTH, she seemed like a nice enough person, but anyone who'd worked long enough at PPTH learned that if you are a department head, part of the job was tolerating Lisa Cuddy's micromanaging of everything they did. Cuddy didn't care that House's boss was actually the Chief Medical Officer (CMO). She insisted on ignoring her own CMO and requiring House to report directly to her. Rarely a day went by that House wasn't summoned to Cuddy's office to answer for every little thing he did on the job. House didn't mind visiting her office – after all, she had a drop dead gorgeous bod and it made his day just to get a good look at her sashaying down the hallway. What he minded was how she treated him. Being a typical guy, he'd never come out and actually say it, but he found it extremely offensive and insulting that she treated his REAL boss like he was invisible. House could not follow the appropriate chain of command when he needed to because Cuddy interfered personally in things that were none of her business.

For example, when House needed permission to enroll a patient in a particular study, protocol dictated that he get that permission from the CMO. It wasn't long after he was hired that he realized that while the CMO might have actually been the one to hire him, Cuddy considered herself his real boss. House's real boss, the hospital's CMO, actually gave House quite a bit of autonomy. It went along with being a department head. In fact, department heads were expected to function at least somewhat autonomously. But it wasn't long before Cuddy started injecting herself into every administrative or patient care decision House made. And it wasn't long before House noticed that Cuddy left his buddy Wilson, the oncology department head, alone. For some reason that really got under his skin, she picked on House and at the same time, appeared to leave the other department heads alone. To House, that only meant one thing – that she didn't really trust him to run the department he had been hired to create and run. It also meant that she apparently didn't trust her own CMO to supervise his own department heads. House used to wonder if any of the other physician department heads felt taken advantage of by Cuddy as he did.

So House and Cuddy had this weird, quite dysfunctional so-called relationship going. House couldn't keep his eyes off her, couldn't resist flirting and teasing with her every chance he got, but at the same time, he knew that she would never be more to him than just a tease. She could do one thing well on the job, and that was manage people. She just didn't seem to realize that only a handful of people actually reported directly to her, and House wasn't one of them. Had it not been for the fact that he'd already been fired by four hospitals before he was hired at PPTH, and had it not been for the other fact that flirting with Cuddy was the highlight of every single day, he'd have told her to fuck off and quit interfering in his department a long time ago.

Cuddy, for the most part anyway, seemed oblivious to the fact that House didn't think she was any more than just very beautiful eye candy. She seemed to enjoy her delusion that "her" diagnostics department head was slavishly, hopelessly in love with her. When she'd heard how sick he was, she was absolutely certain that he would consider life not worth living if she didn't spend every waking moment next to his bedside. So she flounced into House's room on the morning of his third day postop in the ICU. She looked important enough, with a briefcase in one hand and a cell phone in the other. But that low cut, do-me blouse and the pencil skirt that was at least two inches too short for respectable business attire told the real truth.

House was more concerned with just trying to start recovering than he was with how he looked or what day it was. When Cuddy walked in, he looked as sick as he was. His hair hadn't been combed in days and he hadn't shaved in days either. He'd stopped caring about the clock or the patient workload waiting for him at work or anything else related to his job. Considering that his thought processes currently wouldn't allow him to do much more than add 2 plus 2, the eye candy that was Cuddy no longer held much attraction for him. She had an agenda, and didn't seem to realize or care that he was in no shape mentally or physically to carry on any kind of conversation or care about his appearance. She felt she needed his undivided attention at that particular moment. She grabbed a comb and started combing his hair. "Hey! I'm not a fucking two year old!" he shouted, while grabbing the comb out of her hand. Two seconds later the comb hit the other wall and splintered in two. "What do you want?"

"Well, there's no need to be surly about it. I was just trying to help," Cuddy whined.

"I don't need your help. I'm not in the mood to do anything. Just let me alone."

"House, someone needs to call Alison Cameron back and do her second interview. Your current fellows are going to matriculate out of this fellowship before you get out of the hospital, and you've only hired one replacement. You said yourself that she was on your short list to bring back for a second interview. I'll be happy to do her interview for you."

House mumbled "I can't handle anything right now. Wilson will take care of whatever you need. Just get out."

Cuddy was temporarily taken aback by his complete apathy and being ordered to get out of his room. "House, I wasn't…. I wouldn't…..I'm so sorry…." she stammered.

"Oh, give it up. My kidneys are shot. Between the narcs, the rhabdo and all this other shit I can't even put two and two together. You have nothing to be sorry for. I just need you to leave me alone. Take it to Wilson. He can deal with it."

Wilson came back in to House's room and seemed shocked to see Cuddy. For her part, she just looked at Wilson and shrugged her shoulders. She walked out and motioned for Wilson to follow her out to the ICU waiting room.

"Wilson, I've never seen him like this. How uremic is he? I thought maybe if I brought him a little work it might help him pass the time, but if he's that uremic, maybe I made a mistake. Alison Cameron has been calling and emailing the HR department because she wants to set up her second interview, and I thought it would help if I did it while House is out of commission, but when I discussed it with him he wanted me to turn it all over to you."

Wilson replied "Lisa, his creatinine and BUN are through the roof. They're talking about starting dialysis today. Everyone keeps telling us it'll be temporary, but even if it is, it'll take a few weeks for his kidneys to recover. Even after he gets out of the ICU, and probably after he gets out of the hospital, he's still going to need dialysis for the foreseeable future and I don't think any of that has occurred to him yet. He's so muddled he can barely remember where he is. I wouldn't bring any work stuff in. I wouldn't even mention work. Use your administrator skills. Talk to his boss and get him to shut the diagnostics department down for now. His current fellows are due to matriculate out soon anyway. Let his boss refer his current cases, if he has any, to Nolo. He won't like it when he finds out but he doesn't need to find out now, does he? Once his current cases are diagnosed, let the CMO shut the department down temporarily. My advice would be to let our CMO do his job. Let him decide what needs to happen in the diagnostics department while House is gone. If you keep butting in, you'll only make matters worse. Hiring the new fellows can wait until he's out of the hospital and able to come back to work. That's his thing. Don't take that away from him."


	10. Dialysis

Rehab chapter 10

**A/N – I'm a dialysis nurse and normally meperidine is not used for pain relief with people that have kidney problems because it's toxic to them. In my story, he was started on it but will quickly be weaned off of it. Throughout this chapter and the next two, we're investigating different pain relief methods. My apologies to anybody out there who knows anything about dialysis and the effect it has on the blood levels of certain narcotics. This is not a medical education text. Enjoy! Oh, and meet Tina, his dialysis nurse.**

Background music for this chapter: "Flaming Sword" by Duke Ellington, performed by Dr. John on _Duke Elegant_. 

Sometime during his third or fourth day in the ICU (House could barely tell up from down, never mind what day it was) O'Malley and the nephrologist decided it was time to start dialysis. The stuff coming out of his urine catheter could hardly be called urine. House's current mental state could hardly be any more apathetic and he was starting to get a little confused. His potassium had started to rise to dangerous levels and the standard medical treatment they had been using to keep it down wasn't working any more. Dialysis was no longer avoidable. Even though the cause of the rhabdo had been removed, rhabdo had actually already begun to set in by the time House got to the OR for his second surgery. It was hitting its peak right about now.

House was not in any condition to sign consents for anything. It was early in the morning of his fourth day in the ICU. Blythe and John, his parents, had arrived. Wilson, Dr. O'Malley and the nephrologist had updated them but it was really all too much for either Blythe or John to completely comprehend. Watching Dr. O'Malley trying to explain everything to Blythe and John, Wilson was reminded of something House had said before. _How can we expect people to understand something after a 10 minute explanation when we don't even fully understand it after years of medical education? _

House's cardiac status was so tenuous because of the high potassium that they'd actually already started dialysis pending Blythe and John's arrival. His heart rate had gradually gone down to about 40 beats per minute due to the cumulative effects of too much potassium and some other electrolytes. Atropine and epinephrine would help temporarily but the only permanent fix would be dialysis and, eventually, recovery of his kidney function.

As House laid on the bed, sweating like crazy and mostly oblivious to everything going on around him, the dialysis nurse set up the dialysis machine next to his bed and hooked him up for his first dialysis treatment. House just looked at the nurse with a vacant stare. The nurse said "Dr. House, you're still in the ICU. We're starting dialysis now. You shouldn't feel anything and I'll be right here with you. Your parents are talking to the doctors now."

Things were about to get mighty interesting. The dialysis nurse also worked at PPTH part time, and had heard of Dr. House. She'd never met him, but she had seen him on occasion when one of his patients needed dialysis. He had an awful reputation among the dialysis nurses at PPTH as being a wickedly smart, handsome guy with a major chip on his shoulder about nurses, who never visited patients, and made his fellows do their own dialysis procedures on patients when they weren't adequately trained on how to do dialysis. She'd heard plenty of stories about how the other dialysis nurses had to fix dialysis treatment complications caused by his fellows who were doing the procedure incorrectly. Doctors prescribe dialysis and insert the access necessary for the procedure, but they do not actually do the procedure. It's done by dialysis technicians and dialysis nurses.

But the man lying on the bed in front of her didn't look anything like the monster she'd heard about. He looked like every other sick patient who needed urgent dialysis. He looked just as frightened and overwhelmed as any patient in acute renal failure. She figured once his mental status cleared up, he might actually be fun to talk to. She'd heard he could trade barbs with the best of 'em, and she liked patients with an attitude. The snarkier they are, the more will they have to get better. Patients with an attitude don't give up easily.

As the nurse started his dialysis, she took stock of all the medications he was receiving. House pretty much just laid there like a big lump of clay.

_Heparin – should be fine_

_Ranitidine – should be fine_

_Epidural meperidine – that'll probably dialyze off_

_A few standard antibiotics to stave off infection – don't give them during dialysis. They'll dialyze right off._

And so forth and so on. She made her way down the list, making particular note of the meperidine. She'd have to talk with Anderson and House's nurse to figure out what to do if the meperidine dialyzed off. Meperidine doesn't usually dialyze off but when it does, it feels to the patient like a week-long detox session crammed into 3 hours. For most people, that's more shock than their systems can take. Even for patients who need dialysis because of narcotic overdosing, they need to be on something like methadone to ease the withdrawal, and they sometimes need extra doses of it during dialysis. It's kind of a double-edged sword when surgical patients need dialysis. Dialysis very often filters out the narcotic they are receiving for pain relief. His nurse knew that if he began to show signs of increased pain during the dialysis, it would be because dialysis was removing the meperidine, and he would need more. Tina would have her hands full during this first session.

After having had an initial update and having signed the paperwork and the dialysis consent, Wilson escorted Blythe and John in to see their son. John was a stoic military man, a marine. Wilson didn't know too much about him other than the fact that House never talked about him. In fact, House went so far as to avoid talking about or to John as much as he possibly could. House seemed to be on better terms with his mother although even when she called, he still found every reason in the book not to spend much time with her on the phone. Wilson had never really thought about the dynamics of that relationship much until tonight. It was evident by the looks on their faces that it had been a very long time since they'd seen their son. Blythe seemed to need the most emotional support, as pretty much about all she could do was cry. John either didn't seem much interested in, or didn't seem capable of comforting his wife. John seemed much more intently interested in the equipment in the room, saying things like "Stuff seems like top-notch equipment to me" or "Glad to know he's getting A Number One care" or some such meaningless nonsense like that. John also was keenly interested in knowing everyone's credentials, as if only the most highly-credentialed professionals were good enough for his boy. Nobody could tell if he was being truthful or sarcastic and really, it didn't matter. It was clear that John was not capable of providing the kind of emotional support that his wife seemed to need, and that was nothing compared to what his son would need in the weeks and months to come. It seemed like an invisible fort of impenetrable walls went up around John as soon as he saw how sick his son was. Wilson was eerily reminded that the sick man lying in the bed there was just as good at putting up walls. _The apple don't fall far from the tree, does it._

The ICU cubicle was too small for the patient, Tina (his dialysis nurse), his ICU nurse, the dialysis equipment, Wilson, the doctors and his parents to remain crowded around his bedside. After the initial shock wore off, it only took Blythe a few moments to stop crying and gather herself. A look of self-assuredness slowly began to appear as she began to take stock of the situation, at least a little bit. John still seemed quite preoccupied with trying to figure out all the equipment and asking everyone how much experience they'd had caring for people with vascular problems like this. He even used the word "vascular", almost as if throwing medical jargon around made him feel like he had some control over the situation. After Blythe had regained her composure, she rounded John up too and said "John, I think we'd better let them get along with their business. I'm sure we're in the way now. We can come back after his dialysis treatment is finished this time." John still looked as if he wasn't quite finished sizing everyone in the room up, but Wilson had already started to assume that maybe that's the way John had always lived his life and maybe he was just showing the only way he knew how to deal with uncertain situations like this. He could sure see where House got his "control freak" nature from. His dad was the personification of the term "control freak".

When Blythe and John left, Wilson, ever the caring soul, followed them out to the waiting room to make sure that they had a place to stay and to see if they needed anything else.

Alone again in the room with her patient, Tina noted something a little different. On his cardiac monitor, his heart rate was looking a lot more normal and regular. The previous long pauses between beats were gone, and as his potassium was no doubt coming down rather quickly, his heart rate picked up to a normal rate. She knew that the next thing to follow the potassium down the drain would probably be the meperidine.

Sure enough, during the second hour of his two hour dialysis session, the focus of all the nurse's labors began to move much more purposefully. Within seconds he grabbed ahold of the dialysis catheter. His eyes popped open with fear as if in a bad nightmare from which he hadn't completely awakened. Alarms started blaring on the dialysis machine because of the catheter being occluded by the patient's grip. The noise seemed to frighten him more. As Tina gently tried to pry his hand off of the dialysis catheter, she calmly told him "Dr House, it's Ok. That's your dialysis catheter. I know you gotta know what that is. You gotta let go of that. You need that. It's Ok. You're almost finished with your first dialysis treatment and you did fine. I'm sure you're in pain. The meperidine is probably dialyzing off. I'll call your nurse to give you a booster." His fingers unclenched from around the catheter. He reached up to her and sighed deeply. "Thank you" he whispered. Within minutes his regular ICU nurse made a repeat appearance and gave him a meperidine booster.

The two hour dialysis procedure went without a hitch. At the end, House was a little bit more alert looking and clear eyed. His heart rate was much more stable. Once the meperidine booster kicked in, he looked at Tina as she was packing up the portable dialysis equipment to be taken back to the dialysis unit. She saw a bit of a conniving look in his eyes, and had to strain a little to hear what he was whispering; _"I got $100 says I can beat you in a pissing match."_ That was, bar none, the funniest thing Tina had heard from a patient in a very long time. Oh, she'd remember this one, she would. When she got back down to the dialysis unit with the equipment, she put her name on the work schedule every day for as many days as they would let her, and asked to be assigned to Dr. House.


	11. Tina vs Rachel

**A/N – Tina's back, with her alter ego Rachel. Dr. Anderson's back to begin planning long term pain management, Wilson's back, Cuddy's gone and beware of the F bomb. Rating remains M for language! When I talk about permanent versus temporary nerve damage, I have some personal experience there, so I know whereof I speak.**

It was House's fifth day post-op in the ICU. He was a little bit more alert after his first dialysis session yesterday, although still very much in the throes of acute renal failure and, as a result, still not one hundred percent on his game about much of anything. He couldn't stop sweating and his thought processes, although slightly clearer than yesterday, still felt like they were being filtered through layers and layers of cotton candy. A few lucid thoughts survived the trip from his brain to his mouth.

Dr. Anderson took advantage of one of the few lucid moments when he realized House was studying him intently. Anderson began the conversation by doing a basic pain assessment. He asked what House's current pain level was on a scale of one to ten, with one being least painful and ten being most painful. He asked what House's average pain level had been since yesterday. These were basic questions to which House gave very quick, short answers. During both of those questions, House's gaze never left Anderson's eyes. "Dr. House, what's on your mind?" Anderson asked.

"Nothing."

"Ok. I think it's time we talked a little more. If you want to stop, let me know and I'll stop. We can always pick this up later. I think that this is going to be a lot for you to think about but the sooner we start planning, the better." Anderson stopped to assess House's reaction. The only reaction he got out of House was a glare.

"When they debrided the muscle, of necessity they had to be concerned about the integrity of the associated nerves. I know you're not dumb but you're going to hear what I would say to anyone else who had this type of surgery and the complication you had. There are sensory nerves and there are motor nerves. I'm not a vascular or reconstructive surgeon so I can't address the issue of the integrity of your motor nerves, although from what I've heard they're still intact. You may have sensory nerve damage, though." Anderson stopped again. House had redirected his stare to the ceiling.

"I head up the pain management program here at Princeton General," Anderson said gently.

"Oh."

"First of all, notice I said you MAY have sensory nerve damage. I think that the severe pain you had before I put the epidural in was nerve pain. Not surprising. They take utmost care to protect the integrity of sensory and motor nerves during surgeries like this, however, based on the severity of the pain you had before the epidural, I still say it was nerve pain. Nerve pain doesn't always mean nerve damage and I'm not the one to say definitely one way or the other if you have nerve DAMAGE or not. Nerve pain could be from nerve damage, but it could also just be from the trauma of moving things around during the surgeries. Even if you don't have permanent nerve damage, even if this turns out to be just a case of waiting while the sensory nerves recover, you are still going to need long term pain management."

"Oh." House was fading fast.

"I'm going to give you a break. We'll pick this up later. I know it's a lot for you to think about but my team and I will come up with an initial pain control plan today, before I take the epidural out."

"You're not taking the epidural out." It was a statement, not a question, not an argument or an off-the-cuff comment.

"Dr. House, we can only leave those things in a few days at a time. They get infected if we leave them in longer than that. I need to remove it today and we can wait until after you have your dialysis. But we'll have another pain management protocol in effect before I pull the epidural. You just need to know your options, which we'll go over after your dialysis."

House was out of energy and could not verbalize his thoughts anymore. The spider webs and cotton candy were beginning to fill his mind again. But a few of Anderson's words managed to make it through the confusion and actually register in his brain. _Nerve damage? Pain management? Long term?_

Back down in the dialysis unit, Tina arrived for her shift. Most of the other nurses also worked enough shifts at PPTH to have developed a healthy loathing for Dr. House, so Tina had no competition for her request to do all of Dr. House's dialysis treatments. The other nurses were glad to let her do his treatments. In fact, Tina found out that the other nurses had a pool going. They were betting on how many days Tina would last with him before she came running out of his room refusing to go back in. When Tina saw the pool on the whiteboard in the dialysis unit, she laughed. _Pissing match, huh? This guy's just a scared patient like every other sick person. He just needs a little TLC, something I bet he's not used to getting. I love challenges. Oh, this is gonna be fun. If they think I'm gonna give up that easily, they ain't seen Rachel yet._ Tina had an alter ego whom she called Rachel. When things got tough, she brought Rachel out in full force. Tina had a soft side, funny and sensitive. Tina was easily hurt by what people said. Tina worried about what everyone thought. Rachel, on the other hand, didn't give a damn what anyone else said OR thought. Rachel was wickedly funny, sarcastic even, and had a back as slick as ice. Everything rolled off of her. Rachel did things like bring presents in for her patients, something that was expressly forbidden by policy. She did that and other things that were against policy because they were GOOD FOR THE PATIENTS. People like presents. They tend to listen to you more when you come bearing gifts. It's surprising how much cooperation a little $5 trinket from the gift shop will buy. When Tina brought Rachel out, it was because nobody would listen to Tina and something needed to change for the good of her patient. Sometimes she brought Rachel out when she saw someone being rude to a patient. Sometimes she brought Rachel out when she saw her patient in pain and the patient's regular nurse wouldn't give any more pain medicine, saying they were "maxed out" on their pain medicine or something. As Tina, the dialysis nurse, she was a meek, mild mannered dialysis nurse who preferred to do her job quietly and avoid confrontation. As Rachel the Amazon, though, she could make people listen to her when it was called for, and do what everyone knew was in the best interest of the patient.

Tina came back for his next dialysis treatment and found a completely, mentally and physically, exhausted patient. She changed the dressing over his dialysis catheter and he didn't even bat an eyelash. She started his dialysis uneventfully and he pretty much just laid there almost like he was unconscious. He wasn't unconscious. Tina thought he just looked like he didn't give a damn.

"Dr. House, are you awake?"

He opened his eyes and looked at her, but didn't say anything. His expression was utterly apathetic.

"I'm back, and I'm going to be here for pretty much all of your dialysis treatments. I don't know how many you're going to need. From what I see, your labs look like they're improving. Hopefully you won't need too many more treatments. I work here the next couple of days then I have two days off. I've seen you before at PPTH," she said, looking at him to see if he recognized her from PPTH.

"I don't deal with nurses all that well," he said softly. It had occurred to him that his life was completely in the hands of strangers who had probably heard nothing but bad things about him. He was secretly worried that his nurse-unfriendly reputation at PPTH was going to come back to bite him in the ass in some way here. He knew that many of the nurses at PPTH also worked occasional shifts at Princeton General. He had a deep seated fear of running into some nurse whom he might have (intentionally or unintentionally) pissed off sometime in the past at PPTH. This was the primary reason for his apathy.

"Yeah, I've heard that. I pretty much ignore a lot of shit I hear," Tina said off the cuff.

He quickly cracked a tiny smile. "Hell, I create a lot of shit so if you really do ignore it, I think we'll get along just fine." The apathetic look began to fall from his face.

"Have they given you any idea how long they think you're going to need dialysis?" Tina asked.

"No. I have the nurses bring my lab results in every time they draw my blood, so I really don't need to hear the prognosis from anyone else. I know my labs are slowly getting better. The potassium seems to go back up overnight but it's not as high as it was before the first dialysis. The urine output will pick up in time. I kind of figured out myself that I'll probably only be on dialysis another week or so. Least, that's what I'm hoping."

House was obviously quite comfortable with Tina and he was getting used to the dialysis procedure. As is typical of many dialysis patients, he fell asleep about 20 minutes after the treatment started. Tina assumed her position in a chair next to the dialysis machine, closely monitoring her patient.

About an hour into the treatment, House woke up in a cold sweat as if from a nightmare. He was stiff as a board. Since cramping can happen during dialysis, Tina's first reaction was to assume he was cramping. She asked him if he was cramping and he ground out "No – my leg hurts – bad – I think the meperidine is dialyzing off again. Get my nurse. I need more."

Tina put the call light on for House's nurse. The nurse came in promptly. Tina informed the nurse that the patient was in pain and that the patient asked for more meperidine. The ICU nurse proceeded to do a head to toe assessment of the patient, and stated "Meperidine doesn't dialyze off. There must be something else wrong." Even though the nurse only took a few minutes to quickly assess the patient, House was getting dangerously close to screaming. The closer House got to screaming, the closer Tina got to bringing Rachel out. Finally, after what seemed like an interminable amount of time (but it was really only a few minutes) spent asking the same questions everyone else had asked him – "how bad is it, on a scale of one to ten?" and similar inane questions like that – House started crying and Tina brought Rachel out full force. "HELLO! Give him some pain medicine please!" Tina/Rachel stated. The ICU nurse said "I need to assess him first. Meperidine shouldn't dialyze off."

Tina/Rachel firmly announced, "I'm not gonna sit here and watch him suffer. I know meperidine isn't supposed to dialyze off but that doesn't mean it never does. Obviously it's dialyzing off! Call anesthesia if you have to. I don't care. But do something now or else I'm gonna stop his dialysis treatment until someone gives him something else for pain. The dialysis is filtering out the pain medicine. I can't keep dialyzing him like this because he can't tolerate it. Do something." Agreeing that the dialysis nurse was probably correct, the ICU nurse conceded that additional pain medication was necessary and left his bedside to get the needed medication.

In the middle of his agony, House opened his eyes and looked at Tina with a smile. "Guess you just met Rachel," Tina said. "Still think you can beat me in a pissing match?" she looked at him and grinned.

While House was waiting the few short minutes for the ICU nurse to return with the meperidine booster, something Anderson had said earlier to House came to mind.

_Long term pain management! Wasn't that what he said? Long term? How long?_

His ICU nurse came back in quickly with the needed pain medication and explained her reason for assessing the patient first. House knew she was correct in assessing him first, but he couldn't resist throwing an angry glare at her just for the hell of it. He then turned his attention to Tina/Rachel with a smile. When the meperidine booster took effect, Rachel retreated, Tina resurfaced, and House knew he had one more nurse on his side.

After his second dialysis treatment was over, Wilson came back in. "Hey, what's shakin?"

"My nerves and not much else", House mumbled.

"Cuddy's a wreck. She's driving everybody at PPTH crazy. She can't micromanage you anymore, and now she's taking it out on me and everyone else. I tell ya, it's worth selling tickets to see the Cuddy and Company show. Fourteen thousand memos have come out of her office in the last two days announcing stupid little meaningless changes in almost every department. Everyone's shredding them to use as confetti for your welcome back party. You know she thinks you're her diagnostics knight in shining armor," Wilson said with a smile.

House snorted a big laugh. "Yeah, right. She can't do without me. Where have I heard that before?"

"You know she tried to do Alison Cameron's second interview. I told her to get screwed. Well, sort of, anyway. I told her to get her mitts off of your department and let your REAL boss actually do his REAL job," Wilson sputtered out while trying to muffle his laughter.

House lost his own battle to stifle his laughter. It felt good to have something to laugh about and even better to have someone who cared about him enough to laugh with him about it. "Yeah, well, I told her you would handle it. She came to me about that too. I told her to take it to you because she would never in a million years actually let my real boss do his job. She started that conversation with me by trying to comb my hair like I was a fucking baby. Like I'm the baby she could never have. A fortysomething baby.

I broke the damn comb."


	12. Epidural comes out

**A/N. This chapter starts dealing with pain management in more depth. In many states in the United States, health care providers who are taking prescribed narcotics have a valid concern. Licensing boards for health care professionals in some states in the United States require some kind of documentation from the prescribing physician if an applicant or existing licensee is taking prescribed narcotics. When the licensee's urine test comes up positive for the narcotic, documentation of the prescription is a good thing. They also sometimes require some kind of follow up documentation from the prescribing physician whenever the licensee renews his or her license, to ensure that the licensee remains safe to work with patients. House may never have said it out loud, but deep down inside, the character would be concerned about this. I wanted to give some voice to this concern in my story.**

"Ok, you know what to do. The nurses will help. I need you over on your side. One, two, three, go." House did his best to help turn, but the only side he could bear to lay on for any length of time was his left side. Pain dictated what he could and could not do with his right leg. The fentanyl patch that Dr. Anderson started him on an hour ago helped a lot but there was still only so much he could do with his right leg. One of the things he most definitely could not do was lie on his right side because that would mean lying on top of his right leg. Bending the knee was not too far behind on the list of things he could not do. The pain wasn't unmanageable but that was only because he was soaked in fentanyl. He felt useless. _I'm a middle aged man who, up until a little over a week ago, was fine. Now I have to be soaked in narcotics and I need two nurses just to help me turn on my side, wipe my ass, put me on the bedpan. This is gross. No, it's hell._

Dr. Anderson removed the epidural.

Flashback an hour earlier. After his dialysis, Dr. Anderson walked back into House's room for the promised discussion about long term pain management. "Dr. House," he said to the drowsy man. "Call me House" he muttered from behind closed eyelids. "I'm tired."

"I know. There are two reasons we have to take the epidural out. First, the catheter needs to come out before it gets infected. Second, meperidine was great while you were shivering after the anesthesia, but it's not good for people with any degree of kidney failure. So it's time to stop the meperidine. There are some good narcotic choices but first we have to talk about method of delivery." Anderson paused to give House a few minutes to wake up more.

"I don't think pills are a good option right now. You don't have any appetite, and without food in your stomach any type of opioid by mouth is going to give you an ulcer. I would rather stay away from intravenous medications because the whole idea is to get the IVs out eventually. And IV medications don't typically last very long. You'd need a 24 hour continuous drip, and all that's going to do is make you sleepier and more constipated than you already are. And I doubt that you want intramuscular shots every four hours, although that's an option." Anderson stopped a moment. House was fully alert and studying everything he'd said.

"What about a patch?" House asked.

"That's exactly what I was thinking." Anderson answered. "Good. Now let's talk about which medication to use. First of all, there's a lot more to pain relief than medications and eventually we'll start you on some non medication pain relief measures. Eventually you'll probably be on a combination of medication and non-medication measures. Medication wise, for now, fentanyl is your best bet. Its safety for use in patients with kidney problems has been proven. It is not removed by dialysis – at least not during two hours of dialysis."

"We have to stop the meperidine. Anything with codeine is out too. Codeine wouldn't provide the pain relief you'll need and even in very tiny doses it is very toxic to people with kidney problems. Dextropropoxyphene is toxic to the heart in patients with kidney problems. You know, that's kind of like the stuff in Darvocet. So that's out; not that I'd have you taking pills right now anyway. Morphine is a consideration, but not a good one. It has toxic side effects in people with kidney problems. If we ever switch you over to some kind of pain pill, oxycodone, hydromorphone and hydrocodone (Vicodin) are all options, but not good ones for people with kidney problems. They're all metabolized by both the liver and kidneys. It all depends on how well your kidneys recover and how well managed your pain is with other techniques. If your kidneys don't completely recover, then all of them cause excess sedation. Your best bets are either fentanyl or methadone."

"You keep talking about this like I'm going to be in pain a long time." House said, eyeing him suspiciously. "What makes you think this isn't going to be just temporary post-op pain?"

"I don't know how long-term your pain is going to be. With the amount of muscle removed, though, we have to be prepared for long-term. It depends on how your rehab goes. You may find that we can start tapering the fentanyl down after a few weeks. Basically, this is how it works in our program. Once we get you on something that works well enough that you can get through physical therapy, we keep you on that medication at the same dose at least until you finish the physical therapy regimen. Dr. O'Malley asked me to work with you and get you on whatever we decide – in this case, most likely, a fentanyl patch – before physical therapy starts. He's not going to start physical therapy until we're sure the fentanyl patch is providing adequate pain relief. Physical therapy has to start early in order to build up the strength in your remaining muscles, but in order for that to happen you have to have adequate pain relief too. So, if we're in agreement to switch you over to a fentanyl patch, the time to start it is now. We'll apply the patch, wait about an hour for it to really kick in good, then we'll remove the epidural."

"Ok, patch me up then, I guess."

House had an hour before Anderson was due back to remove the epidural. Questions and concerns were starting to pop up and he had nothing to write with. He was convinced if he didn't write them down, he'd forget them.

_How 'long term' will the pain last?_

_Can I go back to work while taking narcotics? _

And then all kinds of questions and doubts began to flood his mind about what people would think if he had to continue on the narcotics after he went back to work. On the surface, House would never admit that he cared about what people thought of him. He did care. He just would never talk about it. _Nobody wants to know that their doctor is on narcotics._ _Nobody wants to know that their boss is on narcotics either. What are they going to think?_ It never even occurred to him that if he did require narcotics for pain relief after he went back to work, he really wouldn't owe anyone but the licensing board and his boss any explanation.

A few other stray thoughts began to creep in.

_What kind of pain is he talking about? Routine post-op pain from a healing incision? Neuropathy? Chronic regional pain syndrome? Some kind of phantom pain from the missing muscle? What?_

_If it's post-op pain from the surgery, it'll go away in a few weeks. But Anderson wouldn't be bringing up the idea of long term pain management if he thought this was just routine post-op pain._

_If it's neuropathy or CRPS – God, I don't even want to think about that. I wonder if that's what Anderson is thinking._

_Phantom pain? Doubt it. _

House was having a very hard time getting his mind around the idea that this could be anything other than just a few weeks of post-op pain that would quickly become just a bad memory. He tried to squelch all thoughts about long term pain, but they kept creeping in and popping up after he thought he'd pushed them down. He then began to realize that he had spent the entire hour thinking about nothing BUT pain. He began to realize that he'd spent pretty much every waking moment dealing with pain, dreading its return during the relative calm provided by the epidural, worrying about pain, planning his days (such as they were) around pain. The knowledge that he was completely preoccupied with dealing with pain made him take a step back mentally. _If this is all I can think about now, how am I going to be able to separate myself from it at work? Am I crazy for even thinking about going back to work?_ House recalled something he'd heard from a professor a long time ago. It now rang true for him personally. "Pain is a powerful motivator. Fear of pain is even stronger." _How am I going to be able to think critically if this is all I can think about?_

"Take a deep breath, Dr. House. The epidural is out. You should be comfortable now on the fentanyl patch. I started you out on the maximum dose because that way we have room to taper it down if it turns out you don't need that much. Physical and occupational therapy will start tomorrow. I won't be here for the therapy sessions but I will review your chart and follow up with you after they've seen you tomorrow. I've instructed the nurses to page me if the fentanyl isn't enough." House looked defeated. Anderson wasn't sure if it was just exhaustion, excess sedation from the residual meperidine and the fentanyl patch combined, or if depression was winning out. Anderson added, "I'm sure you haven't forgotten but I always tell all my patients this. The gold standard for a pain management program is to take all the pain away. We don't always achieve the gold standard, but that's the aim. Pain causes depression. Pain exacerbates depression. We don't let pain get in the way of rehab. I'll see you tomorrow."


	13. Meet the Therapists

**A/N – Sorry for the delay. New characters – Ruth Masters, House's physical therapist, and John Morrison, House's occupational therapist. They join Dr. O'Malley, Dr. Anderson, and Tina as the cast of OCs in this story. I'm a Philadelphia Eagles football fan, and you'll see references to them in this chapter and maybe in future chapters as House's rehab continues.**

Dr. O'Malley met with the physiatrist and other members of the physical and occupational therapy team to begin planning House's rehab.

"Physical and occupational therapy to begin today" was the written order in House's chart. Such simple words for describing the complex procedures that would be required to help House regain his mobility. Psychosocial therapy would also begin soon in order to help him with any disability-related issues.

Ruth Masters was a slightly built woman with a Mighty Mouse attitude. She was a registered physical therapist with thirty years' experience under her belt. Her diminutive stature belied the fact that she'd worked with some of the biggest, beefiest players on the Philadelphia Eagles football team who'd had career-ending injuries. She'd seen players in therapy whose football injuries ended their careers. Most of these guys were millionaires many times over who were at the end of their careers, and suddenly had no prospects of returning to the football field as active players. She was used to egos and knew that underneath these mega egos there was always just a plain guy with emotions just like everyone else. Having all the money one could ever need did not always make up for losing the ability to perform one's chosen livelihood. And she'd also seen some guys who'd had career-ending injuries right after they were drafted, before they'd ever even set foot on a professional football field. These guys were different. They had money from their signing bonuses but that was it. They had been drafted as juniors or seniors in college, before graduation. Without a college degree and without the ability to actively participate in their chosen profession, these guys had more to lose than the seasoned pros at the end of their careers. Ruth often found that the depressed guys had a harder time getting through rehab.

During the initial meeting with Dr. O'Malley, she'd learned some basic, initial information about her new patient. Background information: middle aged man, physician at PPTH, head of diagnostics, yadda yadda yadda. Boring. She sat back and kicked up her heels on the table ignoring all the boring shit. She perked up and jerked her feet off the table when they got to the good stuff. "…had a femoral aneurysm that clotted. Collapsed on the golf course." _So, he's active _Ruth thought. _Good._ "First surgery was to remove the clot and clip the aneurysm." As Dr. O'Malley went through the post op complications and the second surgery, Ruth's jaw dropped. The patients she'd seen before in these types of situations were normally people with diabetic-related circulation problems, not young active guys with no medical history.

_Man, two surgeries, same leg, lost most of thigh muscle, young active guy._ Ruth's mind was alive with optimism for House's rehab opportunities. One of the thoughts already beginning to form in her mind was that he might benefit from doing his rehab with the other Eagles players currently undergoing their own rehab. She thought that it might benefit Dr. House to be with other guys with athletic abilities similar to his own. Down the road, the possibility of a working relationship between Dr. House and the Eagles' team physician was an interesting thought, too.

John Morrison was a tall, balding guy who looked as if he'd be quite at home behind the counter of a library. He was very quiet, studious, and serious. John Morrison had his masters' degree in occupational therapy. He was forty five years of age but had only been licensed for about a year. Prior to switching careers, he'd been an insurance salesman. At forty three, he went back to school and finished his masters' in occupational therapy. This was his first job as an occupational therapist. He had already had quite a bit of practical patient experience in school, and still had the eager, can-do attitude of a new graduate. John's patients up until now included stroke victims and office workers who'd had surgical repair of carpal tunnel syndrome. His experience was pretty limited. Up until now, he'd worked primarily on people with hand and arm problems, helping them regain strength and dexterity and helping them physically adapt to changes brought on by their conditions. He'd had a lot of experience in school dealing with foot dexterity issues, but none so far in life after graduation. As John participated in the initial meeting, he found he was more interested in the patient's future than his past. John had already picked up what he needed to know about the surgeries. John was all about the numbers. As the meeting progressed, John found that he was becoming more and more obsessed with measuring the degree of range of motion of House's right foot. Preserving existing range of motion in his toes and ankle were paramount if there was any hope of getting him back on his feet again. Whatever the current degree of range of motion was in his foot, it was worsening every hour he spent lying in that bed not moving anything. They could rehab his remaining thigh muscle all they wanted, but if he lost range of motion in his toes and ankle because of disuse, it would be more difficult to fit him properly with a comfortable shoe, and walking would be severely compromised. The gears were flying in John's head as he mentally listed all the cool gadgets and devices he'd be able to play with while helping House regain his mobility.

During the brief meeting with Dr. O'Malley, House's therapy plan was developed. It was time for Dr. O'Malley to turn House's care over to the physiatrist and the rehab therapy team. It was also time to move him out of the ICU. Moves are always hard on patients, both mentally and physically. The move was the first thing that needed to happen. It was decided to delay his therapy one more day until he was moved out of the ICU.

Tina was in House's room in the ICU, setting up for his next dialysis treatment. The way his labs were looking, this might well be his last dialysis treatment. Full of joy at the prospect of relaying such good news to the patient, Tina blurted out "So hey, this might be your last treatment. Your potassium and creatinine are coming down nicely. I heard they are moving you out of the ICU."

House's eyes shot open in shock and surprise. "Nobody told me that."

Realizing she'd probably said something that should have been said first by his ICU nurse or Dr. O'Malley, she hesitated a moment. "Sorry about that. I thought you knew. That's good news, isn't it?" she said.

"O'Malley should have told me himself. He was in here earlier today. Yeah, it's good news, I guess." The body language said that it was anything BUT good news. House actually had to admit he liked the nurses in this ICU and he'd grown accustomed to the faces and the way things worked in here. He'd never been good with change and he knew that even a simple thing like moving to another room would not be easy. New nurses, new doctors, new people to get used to, maybe even (GASP) a _room mate_. "I don't want a room mate. Make sure I get a private room," he said to Tina, all the while knowing full well that as a dialysis nurse, Tina had no say as to what kind of room he got.

"Maybe I shouldn't have said anything. I'm just glad to know you're getting better," Tina said by way of apology. She started his dialysis and he pretty much just stared blankly at the TV the whole time. _It sucks not to have any control over anything_, he thought.


	14. New day, new room

Rehab chapter 14

**As usual, I don't own the show or the characters from the show. They are property of David Shore, Fox, NBC Universal, and the other powers that be. I only own my story and the OCs. Wilson's coming back again in the next chapter and it will be all Hilson and the OCs from there on out.**

New day, new room.

House felt like a sack of potatoes in a grocery store cart, being pushed along by four nurses in his bed on the way to his new room in the rehabilitation department. He still had an IV and the dialysis catheter was still in the right upper part of his chest. Everything hurt. Even the dialysis catheter hurt. Since nobody was touching it and nothing was pulling on it, House knew that about the only other reason for his dialysis catheter to hurt was infection. He hadn't told anyone it was hurting. He was as human as anyone else. The old adage "if you ignore it, it'll go away" applied to House just like everyone else.

As soon as they pushed the door open to his new room and he passed the guy in the first bed, his heart sank. _Damn. I have a room mate. Shit. I hate this shit. I want a room by myself._

"I want a private room."

"Dr. House, I'm Ronald Major, the day shift charge nurse. I'm also your primary care nurse. Everything regarding your nursing care goes through me. We don't have any private rooms available at the moment. Your name is on a waiting list. I'm sorry, but there are no other rooms available," he said apologetically. "Your roommate might enjoy the company."

"I'm not in the mood for talking. To anyone," House said to Ronald. Nodding to his roommate, he said "If I don't talk to you, feel free to assume that I don't want you to talk to me." Ignoring the other man's obviously hurt feelings, House clammed up after that. The fentanyl patch was only just barely keeping the pain in his leg tolerable. Whether it was purely physical pain or a combination of physical pain and the psychological stress of moving and simply being sick, House had clearly hit the limit of his endurance. It was already 2 pm and he needed to go back to sleep. "I need something more for pain. The patch is wearing off."

"You're due for a new patch anyway," Ronald replied. "Let me get it for you right now. I see from the orders that they don't want you getting any more meperidine but I will call Dr. Anderson if the new fentanyl patch doesn't take it all away," he added. "Dr. Anderson has written a pain management protocol that we use on all his patients. We have a number of things we can do if the fentanyl doesn't completely help. But let's try the new patch first." He expertly applied the new patch, gave it a few moments and then removed the old patch. "Now let's give that a little while to kick in. Here's your call light. Here's how the TV works. Would you like some water?" he asked as he filled House's cup. There was no answer from the patient, but Ronald moved his water over to where House could reach it anyway. He was staring fixedly at the ceiling and every time the nurse said anything to him, it was all House could do to keep from biting the nurse's head off. Recognizing the body language of pain, he calmly looked House in the eye and said "Dr. House, I promise, we'll do whatever we have to to make you comfortable." House looked back at Ronald with a distant, detached expression and said without a hint of sarcasm, "I know. It just sucks, that's all."

Thirty minutes later, he was definitely more comfortable. It was getting close to 3 pm and time for shift change. Part of the routine of changing shifts involved the day shift charge nurse taking the evening shift charge nurse to each room and together they briefly assessed each patient. When they got to his room, House's eyes were closed and he appeared to be asleep. As they briefly assessed him, Ronald explained to the evening nurse that he hadn't had time to completely assess everything but that he thought House's dialysis catheter might be bothering him. House hadn't told anyone, but he'd clearly been picking at the dressing, and the usual reason for a patient picking at a dressing is that whatever is underneath the dressing is bothering them.

4:00 pm. The evening charge nurse said "I hate to wake you up, Dr. House, but I need to take a look at your dressings. The skin around your dialysis catheter is really red. It may be infected. They are prone to that. I know they're talking about stopping your dialysis, so I'll call Dr. O'Malley and see if we can get that taken out tonight. How is your leg?"

House took a deep breath. Insulting her wouldn't get him anywhere. He knew she was nice. He'd also learned, since his first day here at Princeton General, that there was a benefit in at least trying to be nice to the nurses; you want to keep the people who are taking care of you on your good side. He suppressed the urge to bite her head off. "It's a lot better since the other nurse put the new patch on. Thank you. And yes, please see if I can get this dialysis catheter out tonight. It does hurt."

A little later on, Dr. O'Malley came up to see his patient. After a thorough review of the chart, he knocked on the door and walked in. He'd learned to abandon his usual greeting of "How are you?" when it came to House. That kind of a question was most likely to earn, at best, a smart-ass reply. At worst, there'd be no reply at all. He opened with "Mind if I have a look at the leg?" and House replied "Like I have a choice. No, seriously. Of all the dumb-ass questions to ask, that takes the prize. You have to look at it. Why ask me? I mean, come on now. Be like Nike. Just do it. What am I going to say – no?" as he cracked a lopsided smile. "I don't have much to laugh at lately. It might as well be at your expense," he muttered in the general direction of Dr. O'Malley.

"Ok, well, it's time to take the drains out of the wound. You have two drains in – a Jackson-Pratt and a Penrose. The Jackson-Pratt is sutured in with one stitch. The Penrose isn't. The Penrose will probably just slide right out so I'll pull that one first. This will probably hurt like a bitch for a minute or two then it should go away just as quick. You know the drill. Take a deep breath and one…two… three" and Dr. O'Malley pulled the Penrose drain out. House wanted to put on a good show, but honestly, the fentanyl was keeping him pretty comfy for the time being and he just didn't have the energy to do anything besides grit his teeth for a few minutes. "Now for the JP. I need to snip the suture holding it in. Have you ever had stitches taken out before?" House nodded. "Ok, then, you know the deal here too. One, two, three.." and the stitch was taken out. "The JP is in a little deeper than the Penrose was. It will hurt for a minute while it's coming out. One, two, three…"and he pulled the JP drain out. House hissed loudly. "Shit! Damn!" and a few other more choice words came flying out.

"Hey, I've heard 'em all before. It's out now. The incisions are healing well. I'm going to leave the staples in the incisions for another week or so after you start physical therapy. I imagine we can consider taking them out in a week to two weeks. And I have some news for you. Therapy starts tonight. I think you're going to like your physical therapist. She works with the Eagles – you know, the football team. Andy Reid, Mike Vick and those guys in Philly."

House said nothing. Therapy of any kind was not high on his list of priorities, today or in the future.

"I wanted to bring up one other thing. You may want to consider reconstructive surgery sometime in the future. I'm not saying you should do it, but it's something to consider. We took out quite a bit of muscle. The remaining muscle will probably enlarge a little bit but not enough to fill the gap. They make silicone muscle implants that could be used to fill in the gap if you decide to have that done later on."

"Not really of much use to me," was the terse reply.

"Well, it's something to consider anyway. Wiggle your right toes for me."

"I'm not wiggling my toes 'for you'. Let me see how well I can move them 'for me'."

Eyes closed and brow furrowed, he was able to wiggle his toes.

"Good. Now flex and extend your right foot."

Not having moved his right leg or foot to any significant degree since before the first surgery, all of the muscles were weak from disuse. House was stunned, and rudely awakened, by just how weak and stiff his remaining muscles were. He became finely attuned to each muscle and how it reacted to the attempt to move his foot this way or that. Like a test pilot getting to know his airplane, House closed his eyes and went through a mental checklist, patiently taking each muscle for a test drive. Actually, he ATTEMPTED to take each muscle for a test drive. Slowly but surely, the number of muscles that refused to cooperate began to add up in his mind. Basically, he could wiggle his toes and rotate his foot very slowly in an attempt at a circle. That was all. He could not even complete the circle with his foot. Flexing or extending his foot was out of the question.

"House, flex or extend your foot."

"I can't."

"Ok. My hand is on the sole of your right foot. Push down against my hand like you're stepping on it."

"I can't."

"Come on. Try."

"That's a stupid thing to say! Pushing down against your hand isn't the problem! I can't straighten my foot up again! There, is that what you wanted me to say? When I try to move it a certain way, I can't. I said it twice now. Actually, no, I've said it three times now. I'm just tired and stiff. It's nothing personal. I can't do what you want me to do."

"It's ok. I actually expected worse than that. Wiggling your toes is a good thing. You're not going to be seeing me as much as you have up until now because it's time for your physiatrist to take over. I know they're going to do a much more detailed assessment of your degree of mobility. Occupational therapy will probably put your foot in a splint to prevent skin breakdown and keep your heel off the bed. You need to start moving more in bed. As far as the incisions, they're well enough on the road to healing that it's safe to get you out of bed too."

At that, House flinched. "House, it's important to get moving again as soon as possible so you don't develop more clots simply from immobility."

"I know! I'm not an idiot! I can't stand. I don't want anyone helping me. The only way they'll be able to get me out of bed is in a sling, and I'm not ready for that. I know I have to move more. How do you suggest I do that?" House fired sarcastically at him.

O'Malley said "That's their specialty. Aren't you tired of staring at the ceiling from your bed?"

"It's a hell of a lot better than staring at it from the floor which is where I'm going to end up. I can't stand. I'm too tall for them to help me safely. I'll fall and I'll drag them down with me. And those slings are death traps. I want to move too. I don't know how I'm going to do it. If they can figure something out that doesn't put me at risk of doing an ass plant on the floor, I'll work with them on it." House flipped on the TV and dialed the volume all the way up, which elicited no response from Dr. O'Malley and an irritated yell "Turn the damn thing down!" from his roommate.

"Ok, I'll leave you alone. I'll see you tomorrow," O'Malley said with an apologetic look at House's roommate.

The nurse called House's nephrologist to see if he would need more dialysis and if the dialysis catheter could be removed. The kidney doctor came by and removed the catheter, which was clearly infected. "House, this is infected. This happens sometimes though we try to avoid it. Unfortunately it does mean we're going to have to add more antibiotics on top of what you're already getting. I'll go ahead and pull it now. Good thing is, for now at least, we can stop dialysis. Your kidney function isn't normal yet but your creatinine is coming down enough that we can watch you off dialysis. I'm going to evaluate all the meds you're currently on and make sure you're getting the correct dose for people with impaired kidney function."

Talking to yet another doctor today wasn't exactly what he wanted to be doing right now. House knew the damn catheter was infected. The kidney doctor was proving to be one in a long line of medical professionals who seemed to have an urgent need to interrupt what little sleep he was getting today.

"Sorry, I forgot you have a specialty in nephrology too. The catheter is out now. I'm going to culture the catheter and I'm ordering up the new antibiotics to start this evening as soon as they can get them from the pharmacy here. We have a satellite pharmacy on this floor and they're usually pretty quick. Keep the new dressing on the catheter site until tomorrow and I'll instruct the nurses when to remove the dressing. I'll see you tomorrow."

And sure as shooting, the minute House fell asleep, another doctor walked in – this time flanked with a middle aged guy carrying a bag full of gadgets that looked like torture devices. "Oh great, just what I wanted. Santa Bin Laden with an elf to torture me."

"I'm Dr. Smith, head of the rehab program here. You're probably not going to see a whole lot of me. Let's put it this way. The more you see of me, the more there is to worry about. Not seeing a lot of me is a good thing because it means your rehab is going well. I just wanted to show my face and let you know who I am. I've already met with O'Malley. We're starting occupational therapy tonight, and this is John Morrison from OT. I'll let him take it from here. You're going to meet Ruth Masters from PT tomorrow morning. John, Dr. House, I'll see you tomorrow."

House had already craned his neck trying to peer into John's bag of tricks. "Hi, Dr. House. You and I are going to see a lot of each other. I'm not into torture. Actually, all I want to start off with tonight is to measure your foot and make a splint. We need to keep the right heel off the bed and we need to support your foot better. Obviously with the missing thigh muscle, moving your leg and your foot is going to require building up and restoring strength in the remaining muscles. That's going to take awhile and I don't want your foot to develop contractures or bed sores. That's the purpose of the splint I'll be making tonight. Obviously today's been too much so we'll go over the rehab goals with you tomorrow. Actually Ruth and I will do that with you together. That can wait until tomorrow though. Meantime, I just need to measure your foot and lower leg for the splint. This doesn't hurt. When I cut and mold the splint to fit your leg, that won't hurt either. It might actually feel pretty good."

By the time John had finished measuring his leg like a tailor measuring him for a tuxedo, House had lost the battle to keep his eyes open. Between the fentanyl, the continuing battle to control his pain, the stress of the day's activities, the lack of any appetite, the ongoing physical debilitation and the catheter infection, he'd used up what little energy he had just trying to follow what the doctors were saying. House couldn't have cared less what John said or did. He was already in La-La Land by the time John pulled out the measuring tape. When John packed up his things, it was almost 6 pm. House was sporting a brand new sheepskin-lined bright purple silicone "boot" on his right lower leg, fastened with Velcro straps. It kept his foot comfortably supported in a neutral position and the heel of his foot comfortably supported off of the bed. Someone arrived in his room with a dinner tray. By 7 pm a nurse carried the dinner tray back out of his room, completely untouched.


	15. Ruth, Wilson, and Little Greg

**A/N – I know the Stacy timeline in this story is not according to canon. Thanks to pgrabia for the kind and gentle guidance regarding House and Wilson's relationship! That and all the nice reviews I've gotten from everyone else are quite welcome. Here you go. Consider yourself warned. Rating remains M for sex, language, and generally mature adult situations. Content is not appropriate for young people.**

Next morning, Wilson saw him for the first time after moving out of the ICU. House hadn't eaten dinner the day before or breakfast that morning. Judging by the noises coming from behind the closed door, Wilson knew the morning was not off to a good start.

Ronald was in the room with House trying to examine House's right leg incisions and some machine was beeping frantically. Wilson knocked on the door then opened it without waiting for a reply – worried that the beeping indicated some kind of trouble. Trouble, yes, indeed. The source of the beeping was House angrily banging on the buttons on front of his IV pump. He was freaking out, apparently in the beginning stage of a panic attack and possibly also beginning to hallucinate. "Turn the damn thing up before they come in for my therapy! This is killing me! The patch isn't working! Get the hell away from me!" House was nearly hoarse from yelling. Worse yet, House started waving his other arm apparently aimlessly and looking somewhere off in the distance as though he was yelling at and trying to hit someone who wasn't actually there. He wasn't paying the slightest bit of attention to Ronald.

The room turned orange and blue. An old lady and a beautiful woman in her 20's were playing the flute and banjo in the corner. A steel string popped off of the banjo. The lithe young woman crept up to the corner of the bed with one end of the banjo string in her left hand, and the other end of the string coiled up in her right hand. _She's strangling me_. Not like she wanted to kill him; more like she was really, really into BDSM. She gently touched his left leg with the loose end of the banjo string, seductively trailing it up the inside of his left thigh. The loose end of the string reached its destination, and Soft Little Greg slowly became Erect Little Greg. House shivered with drunken delight despite the fact that the urine catheter in Soft Little Greg made Erect Little Greg hurt VERY badly. The old lady playing the flute suddenly began playing a haunting, eerie melody. The beautiful lady with the banjo string abruptly grabbed the loose end of the string, and wrapped the string with a strangle hold around his right thigh. House screamed _She's cutting my leg off help me, help me, help me…_

Wild eyed and completely unaware of his surroundings, House dealt the IV pump one last blow and sent the contraption crashing to the ground. The clamor and clatter caused by the crash only served to make him more agitated. Wilson sized it up in a nanosecond. House was on a morphine drip and suffering morphine-induced hallucinations. "Who ordered this?" Wilson said calmly to Ronald. Then he turned to House. "House, stop. It'll be alright. Calm down. I can't write orders here but I can damn sure call Dr. Anderson. Don't panic. It'll be alright. It's the morphine. Keep thinking about Cuddy's rack for a few minutes while I call Anderson and get you straightened out. You're panicking. Stop. It'll be alright."

Wilson called Anderson. "Hey, I don't know what the heck's going on here but he's hallucinating and probably having a panic attack. I think he's in pain too. Can you come up quick and check him out? Did you know he's on a morphine drip now as well as the fentanyl patch?"

"No. Morphine isn't even on the protocol I ordered for him. I don't know why they're not following the protocol. I'm on my way up." Anderson sighed into the phone.

Wilson walked back into the room, sat down next to House and held his flailing hand. He was shocked and saddened by how much weight his friend had lost. House was little more than a tall skeleton draped with skin. Wilson was glad he had a big freezer at home – all the better for freezing those extra batches of pecan pancakes he'd start making as soon as possible. He made a mental note to stock up on butter, ice cream, meat, protein bars, and as many beers as he felt he could safely sneak into House's room undetected.

Meanwhile, House had completely freaked out. Ronald picked up the IV equipment and was frantically trying to repair the (fortunately) minor damage to the IV. House was still banging on the bed rails and yelling stuff that was beginning not to make much sense. "House, Anderson's on his way up. I know it sounds stupid but relax. It'll be alright. If Cuddy's rack isn't the thought you want to be having right now, think of me passed out in the bed at the hotel after you bailed me out of jail in Louisiana. Better yet, think of that smashed mirror. You saved my ass. That's it, keep breathing deep. Smile if you can. I must have looked like a world class idiot sitting in that jail cell. Relax. Anderson's here now. Calm down."

"Stop the morphine now. Give him 75 mg fentanyl IV push now. What dose of fentanyl patch is he on?" Anderson asked Ronald. Ronald answered, and Anderson said to Ronald, "Wait a little while after the IV fentanyl, then get him on the next highest dose of fentanyl patch. This is on the protocol. Morphine is not. Please follow the protocol from here on out." Once the additional fentanyl kicked in, House began to visibly relax. When the panic attack stopped, Anderson ushered Ronald and Wilson out of House's earshot for a minute.

"What happened?" Anderson asked Ronald. "He woke up and started asking for morphine about an hour ago. I told him it wasn't on the protocol and that we'd get the next highest dose of fentanyl patch since he said his leg was killing him. I needed to look at his leg since I thought there might be a new problem causing the pain surge. He wouldn't let me near him. He started pulling on everything and banging on the IV pump. He was screaming that the patch wouldn't kick in fast enough and then he called O'Malley. O'Malley called me back and told me to start him on a morphine drip. I know it isn't on the protocol. Things just kept going south from there…" Ronald said, his voice trailing off.

"Ok, let's chill. Just please stick to the protocol from here on out. Morphine can do this. That's why it isn't on my protocol. He was probably hurting pretty bad and a fentanyl booster through his IV would have done the trick. Morphine can cause mental status changes in people with impaired kidney function. He was probably having morphine-induced hallucinations on top of the pain. No more morphine."

They went back into House's room. A decidedly disheveled House was snoring like a chain saw. His roommate was on the phone with some higher-up at the hospital, demanding "I need another room."

Ruth Masters reviewed House's chart out at the nurse's station with her cup of hot caramel macchiato from Starbucks. She liked it with lots of whip. It hit the spot perfectly. As she reviewed the surgeon's notes, she finished off the last of her garlic and cream cheese bagel. Ronald was talking on the telephone with the pharmacy, ordering the new fentanyl patches for House and Ruth read what a bad day House had had yesterday. She wanted to let House rest a few hours. Physical therapy would begin later this afternoon in his room.

Reviewing the chart for a record of House's weight, she found none. Asking him his height wouldn't be a problem but getting an accurate weight might be a challenge. She'd need an accurate height and current weight in order to get the right size wheel chair, crutches, walker and cane he would need. Given the amount of muscle removed, she knew it was highly unlikely he would ever be able to move without some kind of aid. His leg wouldn't be stable enough to support his weight for any prolonged period of time without some type of aid. The sooner they got started with physical therapy, the less time he would have to spend in a wheel chair.

"I'm starting his physical therapy this afternoon. Given the events of yesterday and this morning, I think it's prudent if we let him sleep a few hours. Is there anything planned for him between now and about 1 pm?" she asked Ronald. "Not that I know of" was the answer. "Good. Let's try and let him rest for the next few hours. He knows we're starting PT today. I'll be back about 1 pm."

Ruth came back after lunch. She noted a completely untouched lunch tray sitting on a table in House's room. The roommate was sleeping with the curtains pulled all the way around his bed. House was sleeping and a very handsome, nicely dressed man with thick short dark brown hair was in the recliner next to House's bed, reading an oncology journal. Upon seeing Ruth, he removed his glasses. "Hi, I guess you're the lucky one who gets to start his PT today. Have you met him yet? My name is James Wilson. Everyone calls me Wilson."

Ruth smiled. "I haven't had the honor yet. I'm Ruth Masters. Let's let him sleep a little while longer. I have some questions I need to ask first; maybe you and I can talk outside the room and we can get the questions out of the way?"

Outside his room, in comfortable chairs in the visitor's lounge, Ruth and Wilson sipped their second cup of coffee. "How active was he before the surgery?" Ruth asked.

"Very. He rowed competitively in college. He was good enough to qualify for the Olympics. He was a junior world champion. He played lacrosse. He runs, plays golf, and, occasionally, paintball." Wilson's voice caught in his throat at the fact that he was using present tense. _He's never going to run again_. "Well, he did, anyway," Wilson added in a softer voice, looking down at his feet.

"That's great. It means he has the fortitude to work through physical therapy. In many ways, this is going to be like competitive rowing. It's a team effort. I'm the captain, for now, but my goal is to get him to become the captain. In order to get his remaining muscles strong enough to get him back on his feet, he's going to have to maintain that competitive edge. I hope he hasn't lost it. Most people don't realize how much they use their thigh muscles until they've lost the use of them. Thigh muscle is involved in moving the foot, bending the knee, keeping the hip in proper position, turning in bed, sitting up, and of course walking. I'm sure the remaining muscles have atrophied from disuse. This is going to be harder than anything he's probably imagined."

Getting back to her paperwork, she asked "How much did he weigh before this?"

"I'd guess about one hundred ninety pounds. He's six feet three inches tall. I'm just guessing about the weight." Wilson replied. "Why?"

"I need an accurate height and weight so I can get the right sized adaptive equipment for him." Ruth said. "If he weighted one hundred ninety pounds before, he's lost a hell of a lot of weight since. He's nowhere close to that now. I can get an approximate weight during my initial assessment, and that'll have to do for now until we can get a real weight. You said he ran, right? Can you bring in a pair of his running shoes? I need shoes that he's already worn but they should be in good shape. I need to know his shoe size and he's going to need good comfortable shoes for the rest of his therapy."

Wilson answered, "No problem. He probably has 40 pair of running shoes and they're all those really expensive Nike Shox. I don't think I'll have a problem finding a nicely broken in pair."

"Who does he live with?" Ruth asked.

"Nobody. He doesn't know this yet. Actually, he might, but he hasn't talked about it and I haven't broached the subject yet. He lived with a woman named Stacy for five years. They were close but they had problems. Stacy left him after he was admitted here. That's what I think he might not know yet. He hasn't even asked about her. He really only has me. I'm the next best thing." Wilson was still talking with his head down, looking at his shoes. "I'm the next best thing" he repeated sadly. "That's what it boils down to. He has nobody except me and I'm the 'next best thing'. His parents live out of town and he's only close to his mom. His mom is here in town now and she's been in to see him. His dad was here but has since gone back to Lexington. I'm pretty much the only one who has ever stuck with him." _Nobody should go through life with only one friend. It's pitiful that now that he really needs a lot of support, he only has me to rely on, _Wilson thought.

"Well, he's going to need you. I know this is an oft-repeated cliché, but it works. Hang in there. I'm going to meet with him now. Want to come with me?" Ruth asked.

"Might as well. You might need a mediator," Wilson smiled.

"Oh, I've dealt with tough guys before. They all have the same needs as everyone else."

Back in House's room, House and his roommate seemed to have patched things up; at least in a Housian sort of way. A chess game was in progress. The roommate had the board set up on his lap. House called out his moves from the other side of the room. It was a weird arrangement but with no way to share the board, it was all they could do, and it worked.

"Hate to break up the game, but it's time to start your physical therapy. I know you've just been looking forward to this moment with great anticipation, right?" Ruth said with a smile. "I'm Ruth Masters."

"Yeah, I've heard of you. You're the Eagles' team physician?" House replied, impressed. Wilson was stunned. House was never impressed with anyone, not even his own fellows, who were the cream of the crop graduates from prestigious residencies across the country. "Not an MD. I'm one of their team physical therapists. I've worked on all of them." Ruth said. "McNabb? " House asked. "Oh hell, I go back to Randall Cunningham, Herschel Walker, Reggie White and those guys. I've been with the Eagles since the mid 1980's."

"So, what's the plan?" House asked. Wilson was speechless. There was no sarcasm, no bitterness, no showing off in House's voice whatsoever. Was this the same guy Wilson knew? House looked at Wilson. "What? I can't ask questions? What's the matter with you?" House asked Wilson. "Nothing. I've just never seen you like this. You actually like her. You like her," Wilson repeated. "I guess hell just froze over."

"Oh, for God's sake, shut UP!" House spat out. "Yes we can! I can like people! Just 'cause I don't like you most of the time…" and then he attempted, and failed, to roll over onto his side away from Wilson.

Ruth sat back enjoying the banter. "Ok guys. Time to get started. First thing I'm concerned with is that you can't roll over. We can fix that in due time. I need to measure everything so I can get an accurate height and weight. No, I don't need to measure that. I'll take your word on that," Ruth said when House looked under his blanket.

Wilson added with a smile, "You sure? I could grab a magnifying glass. I told her you were a member of a 'coxless' pair rowing team. 'Coxless'. Ha ha, get it?"

House shot back "Speak for yourself. Hey Ruth, you ever had a foot long dog from Sonic?"

Measuring his arm and leg circumference and length, she then measured his chest and waist circumference and the length between his collarbone and his hip. From that she could estimate his weight at about 150 pounds. "I'm guessing you're about 150 pounds. That means you've lost approximately forty pounds since admission. That's bad. I'd say the surgery removed about two pounds of muscle and you've lost an additional thirty eight pounds in a very short period of time. Some of that was probably fluid removed during dialysis but my concern is that the rest of the weight loss is due to muscle wasting and fat loss since you're obviously not eating. We need to get a dietary evaluation to find out how much of a protein deficiency you have. You need to eat or you won't have the strength to get through PT. So, you asked about the plan. Here we go."

"First thing is a dietary evaluation. Need to get your appetite back."

"Next we need to work on range of motion. I'll start passive range of motion exercises on your right foot, ankle, knee and hip. You'll do active range of motion exercises with me on your left leg. The workload on your left leg will increase so your strength in your left leg has to increase too. And you need to start turning in bed every two hours. With all this weight loss, your skin is going to break down if it hasn't already started. I know Dr. O'Malley gave you clearance to get out of bed but" and before she could finish her sentence, House interrupted her. "How? I can't stand."

"Relax. If you can't turn yourself, you're not ready to stand but you are getting out of bed. Not right now, but soon. First you need to be able to turn yourself. The first goal is to get you turning yourself. After you're turning yourself, we'll get you out of bed with a Hoyer lift," Ruth said. House closed his eyes, sighed and shuddered. "I'll fall out of one of those contraptions."

"No you won't. But we're not going to do that today. Today is range of motion exercises and I'll work with you on turning yourself."

Ruth started with active range of motion exercises on House's left leg, showing him what she wanted him to do and having him repeat it. First the foot, then the ankle, knee and hip. Ten reps each. She showed him how to bend his left leg and push against the bed to lift his left hip up every once in awhile, to get some weight off the bed.

Next she gently began passive range of motion exercises with his right leg. House visibly tensed when she began to manipulate his right foot, but she put him at ease by assuring him she didn't want him to try to move it on his own yet. She would do all the moving; primarily because she needed to find out what his existing limitations were. She moved his foot this way and that, and he found he could tolerate it as long as she did all the moving. The same was true with his right ankle.

Things were a little different when it came time to assess his right knee, but with the right kind of support under his knee, he found her ministrations bearable. Not pleasant, certainly, but with the right amount of fentanyl and the right touch from the therapist, the gentle passive range of motion movements she did on his right knee and hip were bearable.

From Ruth's point of view, his knee and hip had already become too stiff from lack of use. She barely moved them at all. When she tried to put his knee through its range of motion, she could only bend it a few degrees before she met resistance. When she gently moved his leg out to the side a little bit to check the range of motion of his hip, the hip was quite stiff. The stiffness and the wasting of his existing muscles were going to make the road ahead for him especially difficult. She could see a look of determination on his face early on in this first session. For a moment, she thought she could see a light in his eyes. His determination reminded her of the winning coxless pair rowing team she'd seen one summer at a competition on the Schuylkill River. Had she met him before, years ago?

"Good. You did fine. Now I'm going to show you how I want you to turn over in bed. If you do it the way I show you, it'll help you move without putting too much strain on your right leg. Here's what I want you to do." And she showed him with his left leg. "Bend your left leg and slide your left foot under your right lower leg. Then reach over with your arms, grab the other side rail and turn using your arms and your left leg. If you can't bear any weight on the right side, that's fine. Just turn from your back to your left side. Always slide your left leg under your right one, though. That way your left leg does all the work. That's how we teach stroke victims to turn in bed. You'll also use that maneuver to help get out of bed – to swing your legs over the side of the bed. But right now all I want you to do is turn on your left side. I need to see you do it independently before I leave tonight." He dutifully did as she asked, and the minute he turned she could see the beginning signs of skin breakdown on his backside.

"Good. The skin on your backside is already starting to get red, which means it's already breaking down. Don't let it get any worse. Turn yourself like I showed you every few hours. I'm going to ask the nurses to make sure you turn off your back." He rolled his eyes at her as only he could, and said "I know. You're thinking I give new meaning to the term 'pain in the ass'." Ruth laughed and said "I think you and I are going to have a lot of fun." House fired back "Slave driver."

"Slavery's illegal. But cracking the whip isn't. Get it? BUTT CRACKing. Yeah, I got good puns too", Wilson retorted.

"Ok, guys. That's all I had planned for today. Tomorrow we start two-a-days. Wilson, you got your orders. Make sure he turns off his back every few hours." Looking at House, but speaking to Wilson, she added with a gentle smile, "And make sure he does it himself!"


	16. Dreams on the river

**A/N – I think one of the best lines in the series so far was a line House said to Foreman in season three when Foreman resigned. Foreman accused House of canceling his interview at Mercy and House said "I only sabotage people I think are worth it." That said a lot. To me, it meant that House thought Foreman was worth keeping around, that Foreman had value, that House respected Foreman. It meant that House told the truth. Yes, he did sabotage Foreman because he felt Foreman had value. He was showing respect in a completely twisted way that Foreman never caught on to. I like that line so much that I wanted to incorporate it into this story. It's the reason for the last paragraph in this chapter. Also – the Dad Vail Regatta in Philadelphia is well worth attending if you've never seen it. It's one of the biggest collegiate rowing competitions in the US and a lot of fun for spectators. **

House was dreaming. Not a hallucination. Physical therapy completely drained every last ounce of energy, not that he had any energy to begin with. Before Ruth walked out the door, House was sound asleep. Wilson watched him with the loving care of a parent watching his or her child sleep.

His eyes were darting to and fro under closed eyelids. "Whatever you're dreaming, I hope it's good," Wilson whispered.

It was the summer of 1980. He was in a two-man boat on the Schuylkill River. Crowds packed the banks of the river, cheering on the competitors. It was a hot day in Philadelphia, and the air was thick with mosquitoes but there was a nice wind blowing. He and his teammate were perfectly in sync, rowing with the precision borne of many hours' practice. They were rowing for the University of Michigan and this was the Dad Vail Regatta. Hundreds of collegiate teams were in this competition. There were eight-man, four-man, and two-man teams. House and his buddy were in the two-man coxless pair division competing with other Division I schools. They were in the finals with Penn State, the University of Ohio, Rutgers and Princeton rounding out the race. They were currently in second place, the bow of their boat only a few inches behind the Penn State boat. All hell broke loose along the river bank as the racers neared the halfway point, with the crowds screaming for their favorite teams. The only sound House heard was the rhythm of their breathing. In and out, in and out, in and out. The two men were breathing as one. They were perfectly in sync. Every time they took a breath in, the oars sliced through the water. Every time they exhaled, the oars left the water – perfectly in unison. House couldn't hear the oars in the water. All he heard was their breathing. In and out, in and out, in and out. Sixty seconds later, as they neared the finish line, the bow of their boat zipped past the bow of the Nittany Lions' boat, and House looked up and shot the pair from Penn State a lop-sided grin. "See ya later, boys!" he shouted as Michigan won the race.

There were quite a few girls rowing for Michigan too, and House had dated most of them. But the prettiest girl, the one who held his interest the most, wasn't a rower. She was a fellow med student. Her name was Lisa, but since one of the girls on the girls' rowing team was also named Lisa, House called his girlfriend by her last name – Cuddy. Unknown to him, Cuddy flew to Philadelphia to cheer for her boyfriend. House nearly capsized the boat when he stood up in the boat after they won the race, and saw her. Later that night, after the celebratory party, she looked him up at the Doubletree Hotel and he demonstrated again exactly how good his rhythm really was.

Wilson looked again at his friend, who was obviously still in the throes of what must be a great dream. House's arms and feet were twitching.

In and out, in and out, in and out. Only this time it was sex in a hotel bed with Lisa Cuddy, not rowing in a boat with his teammate. Her dark hair draped seductively down into his face as he looked up at her with desire. In and out, in and out, in and out. His body rocked back and forth in perfect rhythm with hers. Legs bending, hips flexing, in and out, in and out, in and out. She cried out and he screamed when the cramp hit his right leg.

"House, it's me!" Wilson said softly but urgently as his friend shot upright in bed grabbing the side rails. "Wake up. You're cramping. Hang on. I got you a heating pad while you were asleep. Give it a second to warm up. It'll help. Take deep breaths. Come on, breathe deep."

"I am breathing deep, idiot. And I know I'm cramping! Breathing doesn't stop a cramp!" he ground out, in a cold sweat and hyperventilating. "Oh god, I'm gonna pass out" he said as he began to see stars. "I'm hyperventilating" he said in a voice that sounded to him as though he was talking into the wind. "Wilson, help me" he said in between pants. Wilson grabbed the empty paper bag that had held his lunch, and held it with one hand over House's mouth. "Shut up and breathe deep, dummy," he said softly while rubbing House's back with his other hand. A few breaths into the bag later, House's breathing began to slow down and he looked more in command of himself. The heating pad seemed to help the cramping too, as it eased up and became more bearable. House began to sink back down into the mattress, lying on his back. "Nope, time to roll over on your side," Wilson admonished. "If the cramping has stopped, you need to roll over."

House could play that game better than anyone else. "OOOHHH! It's cramping again!" he cried, overdramatically. "Nice try," Wilson replied. "Shut up and roll over."

Wilson had to force himself to be completely objective and not show any emotion as he watched his friend struggle to use the technique Ruth showed him to roll himself over on his left side. _I've gotta get over this,_ Wilson thought. _I can't let my heart break every time he struggles over every little movement._ _He's my friend and he needs my help even if he won't admit it. I can't help him if I fall apart every few minutes._

House rolled over on his own and Wilson stuffed a few pillows behind his back and between his legs to make him comfortable there.

On the other side of the curtain, House's roommate asked "Hey, you still wanna play chess?" "Yeah, I wanna play chess after I just got done with my first session of PT and cramping and wet dreaming again with this damn catheter in and hyperventilating. It's the high point of my day. What do you think? No, wait, I don't want to know what you think," was House's quick reply. "I want to go back to sleep."

"Are you always this nasty to everyone, or is this just some kind of special honor reserved only for me?" asked his roommate as he jerked the curtain open from around his bed. He thought House was lying on his right side and was ready to stare House down. He was disappointed to find himself staring at House's backside.

"I'm only nasty to people I think are worth it", was the reply, muffled by the blanket House had just pulled up over his head. Wilson smiled contentedly.


	17. Appetite stimulation

Rehab chapter 17

**A/N – rating remains M for language, sexual situations and description of marijuana use in this chapter.**

Wilson needed to return to work. Not that he particularly wanted to, but the other doctors in the oncology department had their own practices to look after. Since Wilson didn't have any partners in his practice, there were no other physicians to look after his patients in his absence. The other oncologists in his department at PPTH graciously agreed to see his patients in his absence, and Wilson felt it was time to go back to work while House was still in the hospital. When it was time for House to go home, Wilson planned on taking an extended leave of absence. He would refer his patients to other oncologists and not take on any new patients. But for the time being, House wasn't going anywhere, and Wilson felt that he could safely return to work.

House didn't see it that way. "Where's Stacy?" he demanded of Wilson. It was about 4 pm, the same day he'd had his first physical therapy session. Wilson woke him up because John Morrison, the occupational therapist, had just walked into the room. "I'm not in the mood for this. Where's Stacy?" he asked Wilson again.

"She's gone. I have no idea where she is. Stop changing the subject. John needs to get started, and you need to eat dinner. I'm coming back after your session with John, with a surprise for dinner. The only catch is, you need to eat all of it. So I'll see you in an hour."

John introduced himself after Wilson left the room. "I'm not impressed. I don't want occupational therapy. What I WANT is to talk to my girlfriend and to go to sleep – in that order," replied the irritated patient. "Mr. House," John began… only to be interrupted by "It's DOCTOR House". "Sorry, Dr. House. I didn't mean to show any disrespect. The initial goal of occupational therapy for you will be to preserve…"

"I don't want to hear it," House interrupted John again.

"I understand that you don't want to hear it. I prefer to explain what I'm doing before I do it. Is that alright with you? I'm not trying to be disrespectful. I'm trying to do what I was asked to do." John replied. "If you don't want me here, I'll leave, but you do need occupational therapy. Perhaps we could reschedule for tomorrow?"

"I just don't need you to remind me that I can't put my fucking underwear on by myself, or my pants, or my socks and shoes or whatever. I know why I need occupational therapy. I just don't want it. There's a difference between need and want. You being here is just a reminder that I'm a fucking invalid who can't put my own stupid socks on."

"That is true now, but it doesn't need to remain true. I wouldn't want to always have to depend on someone else to put my shoes and socks on me, either. It's up to you. I can give you the equipment that will enable you to put your own underwear, and socks, and shoes on, by yourself. But that's up to you. And there's more to occupational therapy than just dressing yourself, but independent dressing is the initial goal. That is, if you agree to continue with OT."

"Well, hell. I know I have a choice but deep down, I guess I really don't. Go ahead," House muttered. "Might as well get started."

John took a deep breath. He was so fresh out of school that he hadn't had a lot of experience with people with leg disabilities. Most of his experience was with patients with arm and hand problems, such as stroke victims. He was also completely unused to patients who were also physicians. However, what he lacked in experience he more than adequately made up for in enthusiasm. John Morrison was a gadget guru. He had a whole armada of gadgets back in the department that he was eagerly looking forward to trying on House, including hand controls for an automobile, but for now the only device he thought prudent to introduce House to in this first session was a grabber. A grabber is a plastic device with tweezers on one end and a handle and trigger on the other hand. Grasping the handle and pulling the trigger closes the tweezers on the other end, enabling the user to grab things that are out of reach such as socks, shoes, and items on the floor. John showed House how to grab his underwear with the grabber and slide them over his feet and up his legs without having to bend his right leg. Although House would never admit it, he grudgingly accepted that even though it was more difficult to put his boxer briefs on by himself, it was a lot better than always having to ask Wilson to do it, or worse yet, put his call light on and wait for a total stranger to do it for him.

"This is fucking embarrassing," House muttered as he successfully return demonstrated how to use the grabber to put his own underwear on.

"Most people feel the same way, initially. Everything you are able to do by yourself is an accomplishment to be proud of. That includes putting your underwear on. Tonight I just wanted to get you started with the grabber, and that's yours to keep. So we're done here for tonight. I know Ruth has you down for two PT sessions a day from here on out, so I'm going to limit OT to one session a day and I'll do my thing early in the morning before you have PT so hopefully it won't tire you out too much. We'll see how it goes, and make adjustments along the way if need be. I'll see you in the morning."

John walked out just as Wilson walked in with a paper bag full of Styrofoam takeout containers. The enticing aroma of moo shu pork surrounded Wilson.

"Oh hell, no. I can't eat that shit now," House grumbled even as he reached for the bag and pulled out the containers. "What have you got?" he asked. Wilson took the containers back and put them back in the bag. "Hey, what gives?" House said.

"I thought you just said you couldn't eat that shit now," Wilson replied. "What kind of shit would you like to eat? If you can't eat THIS particular shit now, I'll get you some other kind of shit to eat. You have to eat some kind of shit. If it's not this, then tell me what other kind of shit to get."

"Smart ass. Ok, I give up. You got any moo shu pork in there?"

"Of course. I paid for it with your credit card too," Wilson said with a smile. "I got you some pancakes to go along with it. I also got you plenty of sushi. I know how you love eating raw smelly fish."

"Leave Stacy out of this. Don't make me throw up all over you," House replied as he took a tentative bite of the pork.

"I'm serious, House. Eat all of the pork. You need the protein."

"I can't," House muttered after having eaten all of about three bites of it. "I'm not lying. I'm not kidding. I can't eat. I have no appetite. It's like trying to force more air into a balloon that's already full. I feel like I'm full. I know I'm not. But I just can't eat anything."

"Well then I have another, even bigger surprise for you. You have to promise not to tell anyone. I know you have no problem with that." Wilson said with a gleam in his eyes, as he furtively looked around the room to be sure that no nurses or visitors were anywhere close. House's roommate was downstairs in the hospital's main dining room. "You have to swear not to tell anyone. Promise me," Wilson said again.

"God, I swear!" House rolled his eyes.

Wilson pulled out a can of air freshener from the paper bag. "You promise?"

"YES!"

Wilson sprayed at least half the can of air freshener all around the room, and closed the door. He put a "Do Not Disturb" sign on the door.

"Geez, I'm going to asphyxiate on the damn air freshener!" House laughed between gasping and coughing.

"No, you're not." Wilson looked around, as nervous as a teenager sneaking a beer. "Don't say anything." He pulled out a baggie, a couple of rolling papers and a lighter from the paper bag. "Geez, what else you got in there?"

House asked, while rifling through the remains of the paper bag. "Give that back to me – shit, you want to get me arrested? Leave it alone and let me do my thing. Just shut up," Wilson said nervously as he rolled a big fat doobie.

Two minutes later House sucked in a big lungful of "medication". "I'd put In A Gadda Da Vida on my iPod but you said you didn't want to throw up," Wilson said goofily. Wilson was a pot virgin, and was already slightly goofy after just one hit. House had had several hits and the nausea he hadn't told anyone about was already subsiding.

"God, this is wonderful. Oh my god," House said dreamily. "Oh god, that's hitting the spot. Here, gimme" he said, grabbing the doobie from Wilson. "I need it more than you do."

"That's the point. Smoke up. But do it fast, before your roomie comes back. I don't have enough for him too and I don't feel like spending the next few days in jail." Wilson let him keep the doobie as he went over to the window, opened it, tried to fan the smoke out the window, and sprayed a bunch more air freshener. "Damn, you're ruining it!" House grinned dopily after his fifth hit on the joint.

Footsteps and noises from a creaky wheelchair grew louder as the roommate and his family got closer to House's room. "Hurry up, finish it!" Wilson hissed, as House sucked down the last lungful of "medicine" and Wilson hurried to get rid of the evidence. Quick-thinking Wilson shoved a clean bedpan under House's sheets just before the door opened. House's roommate and family walked into a cloud of fresh spring air freshener and an open window. Wilson made a show of removing the bedpan out from under House's sheets and said to the roommate, "Sorry about that. He couldn't make it to the bathroom. Diarrhea, you know. This nasty hospital food will do it to you every time. I tried to cover it up with air freshener."


	18. Day ends on a high note

Rehab chapter 18

**A/N – short chapter because this is the end of a long day for House. This is really more fluff than anything else. More references to drug use in this chapter.**

After a short post-pot nap, House predictably woke up, still a little bit high from the pot and with the munchies. Wilson took all the Chinese food down to House's outer office and reheated it in the microwave. Like a toddler, House immediately grabbed the two fortune cookies first. He ripped their packages open before Wilson could say a word. "Uh uh", Wilson admonished. "Eat the pork first."

"But Mom," House whined.

"Eat it or I tell everyone you smo…"

"Shut up!" House smirked, while making a quick grab for Wilson's food.

"…oth talked Cuddy into getting a bidet installed in your office," Wilson finished.

After both men finished their meal, and Wilson confirmed that House ate all of the pork, the containers were dutifully disposed of and Wilson had another nice dessert surprise. This one was for everyone, roommate included. But first Wilson needed to reconnoiter the roommate.

Verifying that House's roommate was still awake and didn't have visitors, Wilson winked at House and asked the roommate "So hey, have you had dessert tonight?"

"Nope," was the reply, somewhat suspiciously. "Why?"

"No reason. I was just asking. I like to cook. You like chocolate ice cream?"

"Sure!"

"Back in a flash," Wilson said with a grin. House could barely stifle a laugh.

Fifteen minutes later, Wilson was back in House's room with three plain white containers of dark brown ice cream. Wilson and House waited until the roommate took the first bite, then both burst out laughing. "You likey?" House asked with a snort.

"Yeah! What the hell is this?" the roommate asked while scarfing his ice cream down.

Both men waited to be certain that the roommate really liked it. Neither was sure that they could trust House's roommate, and House wasn't about to start trusting a stranger when he never even trusted people he knew. After five or six bites, the look on the roommate's face told both of them that he'd figured out what was in the ice cream. "Man, this is awesome!" raved his roommate as he continued to scarf it down.

"Chocolate ice cream with my own homemade chocolate brownies mixed in." Wilson said furtively, his eyes darting around the room nervously. He was still wrestling with the idea of trusting House's roommate. House just snorted with laughter that bordered on derision, shook his head, didn't say anything, and dug into his with gusto.

The roommate replied "Yeah. I know what's in here. I know of a place in California that makes chocolate bars with it. Pot's amazing, isn't it? I knew something was up when I got back from dinner. People don't usually spray half a can of air freshener all at once if all they're covering up is the smell of poop."

House looked at Wilson, smiled, shook his head as if to say No, and said "Haven't you learned anything from me?" And to his roommate, House said in no uncertain terms, "There's no dope in here now. If you say anything to anyone, the only dope that will ever be in here is you."

"Hey, take it easy. I'm not going to tell on you. Nobody would believe me. I've lied, cheated, stolen, and done so many drugs that everybody in the Princeton PD knows me on a first name basis. I've been in and out of rehab so many times I'm sure I've broken some kind of record. The last thing I want to do is rat on anybody," said the roommate quietly. "Touche'," House replied.

"Ok, enough for tonight. I'm going home. I don't know what I'm going home to; probably an empty house by now, but I'm going home and I'll see you in the morning, House," Wilson said tiredly. "I've had a long day too."


	19. Fluid Overload

Rehab chapter 19

**A/N – in case you haven't yet figured out, language, drug use references, and generally very adult situations are just three of the reasons this story remains rated M… this will continue…**

It was midnight and every staff member available on the floor was in House's room.

The roommate strained to hear what was being said on the other side of the closed curtain, but most of the words were medical mumbo jumbo. A few words were crystal clear.

"Pulmonary…" he figured that had something to do with the lungs. "….clot?" "…anemia…" "…..hypoxia" he knew that meant something to do with oxygen.

But none of the voices he heard sounded like his roommate's. House's voice was nowhere to be heard. Everyone else was talking in a rapid-fire tone of voice. It sounded very confusing. Nurses rushed in and out of the room, doctors rushed in and out, and someone came in with some oxygen tubing. The nurses and doctors were trying to keep their voices down out of consideration for House's roommate, but activity on House's side of the curtain had ramped up and it was impossible for House's roommate to ignore what was happening.

Pretty soon, the curtain was pushed back again so that the two men could see each other. House was awake, very sweaty, sitting almost upright in bed and with his eyes focused on a spot on the wall at the foot of his bed. "House, you ok?" he asked.

"He'll be Ok in a little while. I think he'll talk when he's ready," said a nurse.

House's roommate looked worried to death. _What the hell happened?_

House was breathing hard, with an oxygen mask on his face. He turned to his roommate with a look that clearly said _Breathe now, talk later._

"Dr. House, you're a little fluid overloaded. We just gave you some furosemide, which should help get rid of the extra fluid. Your kidneys are almost back to normal, but not quite. You don't need dialysis again. We just need to let the furosemide work. When you're breathing better, we'll figure out what triggered this," said the on-call medicine resident doctor. House just nodded his head and concentrated on breathing.

Thirty minutes later, House was damn glad they kept the urine catheter in. The bag had already filled up and the nurse just replaced it. He peed out over a gallon through the catheter, as a result of the furosemide, and was breathing considerably better. The oxygen mask was gone. House was exhausted, but the cause of the problem needed to be discovered so that it wouldn't happen again. House looked at the Chinese food containers in the trash and knew exactly what happened. He waited to see how long it would take the resident doctor to pick up on it as well.

The only question the resident doctor asked House was if he was on a fluid restriction. House played dumb and said "What's that?"

The resident doctor then spent the next half hour going through House's chart, the record of how much IV fluid he'd received, how much urine was in the catheter bag before the breathing difficulty started, and so forth. Everything looked normal and the resident doctor was perplexed. House was actually beginning to enjoy the other doctor's obvious confusion for a little while, until he just couldn't bite his tongue any more.

"Look in the trash."

"Huh?" was the confused reply from the resident doctor.

"Look in the trash. I think I may have overdone something earlier."

The resident doctor saw the Chinese food containers in the trash.

"I ate a whole container of moo shu pork, all four pancakes, two packets of soy sauce on the pork, some of my friend's stuff that also had extra soy sauce on it, and a big serving of ice cream. Then, of course, there was the 32 ounce Coke and three glasses of water since you know, all that salty food kind of tends to make a person _thirsty_…" Of course neither House nor his roommate said anything about the other thing that he REALLY indulged in, the reason why he suddenly had the appetite to scarf down that much salty food and that much liquid. Some secrets must be kept secret!

"You went from eating nothing to eating and drinking all of that in one meal? No wonder. I know this is going to sound like I'm stating the obvious – 'cause I am – I know you have a nephrology subspecialty – but have you ever heard of fluid restriction? Ok, dumb question. Sorry about that." "F-l-u-i-d R-e-s-t-r-i-c-t-i-o-n." He enunciated the words slowly, like he was talking to a little child. House wasn't too tired to arm his verbal assault rifle.

The inexperienced, naïve resident doctor continued. "You should be on a fluid restriction until your kidneys have fully recovered. Don't repeat what you did tonight. Chinese food is fine but all that fluid is too much. Ice cream counts as fluid, too. If you like Chinese you can have it, but when it makes you thirsty, suck on some hard candy or ice cubes."

House, looking suitably pleased with himself at having come up with the cause before the resident did, nodded his head curtly, cocked his head, and fired. "I'm not an idiot. I just did something impulsive. Welcome to my world. I haven't had any appetite or, for that matter, anything good enough to eat since before my surgery. In case you haven't noticed, I've lost thirty plus pounds. I'm entitled to over-indulge. You're not entitled to criticize me for it. You fixed me; great. See ya."

House's roommate gave him a big round of applause and the two men waved goodbye to the suitably chastised inexperienced resident doctor as he made his exit from the room rather quickly. As soon as the man was gone, House looked at his roommate with a lopsided grin and said "Yeah, well, even money says he's hot on the phone with my surgeon now. You may see an even better show when O'Malley comes in tomorrow."

In the middle of the excitement earlier, when he was having trouble breathing and was perspiring profusely, his fentanyl patch slipped off. His nurse was so attuned to his needs that she saw the signs of increased pain before he even said anything. While in his room assessing his pain, she found the errant patch stuck on the bottom of her shoe. She silently and quickly applied a new patch then peeled the old one off of her shoe and discarded it. He never even had to say anything. His pain level was only at about a 4 before she put the new patch on. He looked at her with new respect. _God, these nurses are good, _he thought. Was protecting his sarcastic rep more important than saying something nice to her? Hmmm. _What did I learn earlier? I should be nice to the people taking care of me? _he thought. Well, he figured he should say something. "Umm, thanks," was all he could say. She replied, "Oh, you're welcome! I'm sorry it fell off in the first place. Usually we use extra tape to make sure patches stay on when someone starts perspiring. I guess my shoe was a happy camper for awhile, and now the trash can is happy too."


	20. Socks, shoes, and relationships

**A/N – this one should be a nice long one. I did borrow a line from the episode "Family" when Wilson had to buy House a new cane.**

**As I proofread this now, enduring the lingering effects of my oral surgery last Monday, I'm listening to "Cyril Bonhamy and the Great Drain Robbery" narrated by HL. If you haven't heard his narration of this story, it's absolutely hilarious. It's the funniest audiobook I've ever heard. I usually don't like audiobooks because many narrators can take a wonderful story and bore me to death with poor narration. This one is absolutely awesome. **

**This is a re-upload of chapter 20 because in the original version I mistakenly used the wrong ex Mrs. Wilson… sorry! In this story, Wilson was still on the first wife, Sam – at least until the next line…**

"Sam left me."

Picking at a bowl of dry Froot Loops, the next morning, House looked at Wilson with a smirk. "Told ya," he said through a mouthful of cereal. "You're an idiot."

"I'm sure I'm going to regret asking this, but you're going to tell me why I'm an idiot even if I don't ask, so….why?"

"Because you pick women for the wrong reasons. Why even bother saying the line 'Till death do us part'? Yours never last more than a few years. Why bother getting married? You go through wives like most people go through cars. Use them up, trade them in, get new ones."

"Somehow, I think relationship advice would sound better coming from someone who was actually in a stable relationship himself. And what do you mean, I 'pick women for the wrong reasons?'" Wilson said with a smirk.

\

"You pick women who need you." House said, slurping down a glass of orange juice. He shifted in bed, winced sharply, took a deep breath and continued with his eyes closed. "They're all losers. You don't pick women who could function just as well without you. You pick women for their problems. It's like you go to the grocery store and pick the most bruised, defective produce you can find. It stinks so badly it's practically screaming at you to take it off the shelf and take it home before the store throws it away. You think if you clean it up enough and cook it with just enough TLC, it'll taste just fine. You use the same philosophy with women."

"I guess I pick my friends the same way, then." Wilson fired back.

"That's why you pick strong, domineering women. You _think_ those are admirable qualities until one day you come home and find that the woman you love put the orange juice on the wrong side of the refrigerator one too many times. You're you, and she's who she is. It's a head-on collision waiting to happen. You tell her why she's wrong, she tells you why it doesn't matter, and eventually she becomes the next one on the train outta there," House said. Wilson looked at him with utter incredulity.

"I'm….I'm…. how can you…..god, I have no idea what to say!" Wilson spluttered.

"You started this conversation. I'm just telling it like it is. The difference between all your women and me is, they come and go, but I don't leave. I'm not going anywhere," House answered directly with obvious, and uncharacteristic, care and concern.

"I'm not going anywhere, either, House."

O'Malley walked in as the two men finished their breakfast and their conversation. Remaining on high alert after overhearing the conversation, House's roommate stopped eating his breakfast, waiting for what might or might not happen next with Dr. O'Malley.

"So, how's your breathing this morning?" O'Malley asked while leafing through House's chart.

"Fine."

"Why do you ask that?" Wilson said.

"You mean he didn't tell you? No, I guess he wouldn't. Something possessed him to drink about a gallon of fluid – apparently, at least a 32 ounce Coke and three glasses of water all in one sitting. I'm thinking it was eating a bucket full of Chinese food. His kidneys aren't quite ready for all that sodium and fluid yet, so he went into fluid overload last night. Nothing that a bit of furosemide couldn't fix."

Saying nothing and looking a little bit conspiratorial, Wilson just shut up and looked at House. "Oh. Well, don't do that again," he said, smiling at House. It was all Wilson could do to suppress a relieved chuckle – relief over House's recovery from that incident and relief over the obvious fact that last evening's pot party remained a secret.

House's roommate snorted, using the napkin from his breakfast tray to suppress laughter.

Dr. O'Malley looked from Wilson to House's roommate to House, and said "Did I miss something? What's so funny?"

Wilson and the roommate looked fit to burst with laughter. It was all they could do to maintain their composure. With his best poker face firmly in place, House said "None of your business."

Looking confused, and hoping for an explanation from either Wilson or the roommate, Dr. O'Malley waited in silence a few minutes. Upon seeing that he would get no answer to his question, O'Malley changed subjects.

"Ok, well, I need to take a look at your incisions. I see the fentanyl patch. How's you pain control?"

"Not too bad," House admitted truthfully. "Fentanyl's doing the trick so far, but I haven't really moved around too much yet."

"Your incisions are healing nicely." Noting the fact that the incisions and the surrounding tissue were already starting to contract inward, forming a bit of an indentation in his thigh, O'Malley said "Have you thought about a silicone muscle implant? Not that there's any timetable for it if you decide to do that, but I was just asking."

House followed O'Malley's gaze and stared at his incision. "Sure is ugly, isn't it? I don't want any more surgery."

"Ok. We need to talk about what to expect as healing progresses. Scar tissue is not as elastic as skin, fat or muscle. Scar tissue contracts. These scars will contract more than they already have. I know you don't want any more surgery, but I could still call in a plastic surgeon if it's Ok with you because there might be alternatives that would help treat the scar tissue contractures you already have, or prevent more."

"No more surgery. I don't need a plastic surgeon. I'm just going to have to get used to looking at a big ugly scar."

"Ok, no surgeon. Have they got you up out of bed yet?"

"No. And I noticed you didn't say 'Have YOU gotten out of bed yet'. Love your choice of words. 'Have they got you up out of bed yet.' Makes me sound like a sack of potatoes or something. I think that I am going to get out of bed when Ruth comes for my PT today. As to how that's going to happen, I have no idea," House retorted. "I'm getting tired. I need to rest before my next courtesy call."

"Ok, see you tomorrow then." O'Malley said. Wilson followed O'Malley out of the room and out of House's earshot.

"Hey, need to talk to you," Wilson said. "How much nerve damage do you think there is?"

"Probably a pretty significant amount. All the nerves that innervate the quadriceps muscles are actually branches of the femoral nerve that comes down through the groin. The goal in vascular surgery is to always preserve the nerves, but in his case, the branch supplying the vastus lateralis suffered the same damage that the muscle did and we had to remove it along with the muscle."

"Ok. I'm beginning to get the picture of what we're dealing with here. Thanks, and I'll talk to you later", Wilson replied.

Back in House's room, House was asleep again. Wilson propped his legs up on the nearest empty furniture and pulled out a note that had been neatly folded up in his billfold.

When Stacy left, she'd left a little surprise on the windshield of Wilson's car. Sooner or later, House was going to find out. Wilson wanted to be the one to tell him gently. Otherwise House would just find the note in Wilson's trash, and this wasn't the kind of thing one should discover by surprise.

"Wilson. Congratulations. He's yours now. I wish it didn't have to be this way. It will probably be difficult for either you or Greg to believe this now, but I love Greg more than you will ever know. I'm not stupid, and I'm not looking to cause heartbreak either. I can't continue pretending that your relationship with him is just a friendship. Maybe it's time you and he accept that fact too. If true love is monogamous, then it's either you or me and it can't be both. Greg needs you now more than he needs me. I can't give him what he needs. You can. That's why I say he's yours now. Goodbye. I'm here if either of you need me, but I doubt that you will.

Love,

Stacy."

While Wilson debated how to break the news to House, John Morrison walked in to start House's occupational therapy. "Good morning, Dr. House!" John said cheerily but gently, to avoid startling the sleeping man. "Oh. Shit…." muttered House as he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and struggled in vain to find a comfortable position. "I just went to sleep. Oh hell. Well, I guess there's no rest for the wicked. What ya got for me, bitch?"

"First, need to look at your foot," John said as he gently removed the protective boot on House's right foot. "Good. I see no irritation or signs of skin breakdown. The boot's doing what we want it to do. From here on out, I want you to leave the boot off during therapy and when you're out of bed but when you go back to bed, the boot goes back on."

"Anytime you're out of bed, you need to wear shoes, even if you're not standing yet. You need the support of a shoe to keep your foot in proper alignment even if you're in a wheel chair. And you'll need a good rubber-soled shoe when you do start standing and weight-bearing. I see the Nike Shox your friend brought in. Good choice."

John said, "Raise the head of your bed up to a sitting position. You need to get dressed. Relax, it'll be alright. It's probably going to take awhile, but you'll get the hang of what I'm about to show you pretty soon. You want company for this?" he asked, unsure of whether or not Wilson's company during the intimate act of dressing was desired or not. House looked at Wilson, grinned and shrugged, "Might fill your need to be needed. I'm ok with that."

"Ok. Let the bed do as much of the work as possible right now. Raise the head of your bed to a sitting position." Once that was done, John continued. "Ok, now slide your left foot under your right foot. Use your left foot to move your right leg over to the side of the bed." Closely observing House for signs of increased pain, John was satisfied as House did what he asked. John continued. "Ok. If Ruth starts you with a wheel chair, always keep your wheel chair parked at an angle right next to the bed. If she doesn't start you with a wheel chair, I want you to keep an ottoman or a chair with no arms on it next to the bed in the same position. I don't want you to sit in the chair. We're going to use the chair to help you get dressed. I'll show you." John grabbed a wheel chair, took the arms off of it, and parked it next to House's bed as he described. "Since you aren't able to support your right leg independently right now, or bend it very well at the knee, we're going to use the chair to support your leg while you get dressed. So what I want you to do is keep your left foot under your right leg. In one smooth move, use your left foot to slide your right leg into the seat of the chair. You'll be sitting up on the side of the bed with your right leg supported by the seat of the chair, and your left foot in a natural position on the floor."

House looked very nervous and unsure of himself. It was obvious to all that he was trying and failing to conceal his nervousness. "Do I need more pain meds first?" he wondered out loud. "Dr. House, yes, this is going to hurt but probably not as bad as you think it will. Let's give it a try."

Before John could get his hand under House's right leg to help him get started, House said breathily "One…two…three… over we go" and did as John showed him. His hair was sticking up in all directions in the craziest bedhead hairstyle Wilson had ever seen. Trembling with weakness, dizziness, and more than a good measure of relief, House ground out "Shit…..fuck…..oh my god, I did it….shit…..sumbitch…oh, shit… deep breath…relax….did it myself!" Perspiring more as a result of temporary dizziness and nervousness than pain, House breathed, "Let me alone a minute. I'm fine. Just need to….relax….I'm fine," as Wilson rushed to his side to support his wavering friend. "No, let him alone. He's doing fine. Dr. House, you're probably going to find that your balance is a little bit off because your left leg weighs more than your right leg. You're probably a little dizzy too. Both of those are reasons why I want you to have the support of the chair next to your bed, even if you're not sitting in it. Here in the hospital, your bed has side rails you can use for support but once you get home, your bed at home won't, so you need to get used to having a chair next to your bed for support. The dizziness will probably go away by the time I get finished with this sentence. The balance problem, if you're having one, will go away with time."

"Are you still dizzy or has it passed?" John asked. "Still a bit dizzy," House admitted. "But it's better."

"Ok, stay where you are. Let me check your blood pressure." John checked House's blood pressure. "It's fine. Give it a few more minutes to pass."

And just as John said, the dizziness did pass after a few more minutes. "Guess you really do know what you're talking about," House reluctantly admitted out loud. "At PPTH, I never had much use for nurses, therapists, or really pretty much anyone else."

"And we can put that independent streak to very good use. Don't change. Take what we show you, learn it, then show us in return that you don't need us anymore. That's the goal!" John finished the thought out loud with a smile.

House looked up at him with grudging admiration and relief.

"Ok. Now to get down to business. You need to get dressed. Since you still have dressings on your leg, you should stay in a hospital gown. I see you managed the underwear again – good job! We'll do socks and shoes now. Don't try to get dressed while lying on your back in bed. Sit up like you are now, then dress. I have an extra-long shoehorn that I want you to start using to put on both shoes. For now, we'll use the shoes you have. When you buy new shoes, though, you might find it helpful to get the Nikes with Velcro straps instead of laces. Keep your shoelaces tied at all times and slip your feet into your shoes like loafers. I wouldn't tie the laces too tightly if I were you, because the longer you're out of bed the more your right foot will swell at least for the time being. Keep your right leg resting on the chair as it is now. Don't bend your leg. Lean over a little and put the sock on. That's it," John said encouragingly as House awkwardly pulled his right sock on.

"Good. Now I'll show you what I think is the easiest way to put your shoes on without having to bend over. Do the right leg first; keep it resting on the chair. That's it. With the grabber in one hand, grab the shoe by its tongue. Put the shoehorn in with your other hand, then slip the shoe on over your foot. That's it! Keep trying!" John said encouragingly as House dropped the shoe over and over again. On the tenth try, he clumsily and awkwardly put his right shoe on.

"It doesn't take much to get you off, does it?" House muttered. "How many times do I have to drop the damn shoes before you all let me out of bed in my socks?"

"You'll probably drop them hundreds of times and you'll probably curse me AND your shoes out thousands of times. But if Ruth or I see you in therapy with no shoes on, well, just trust me. You'll be putting shoes on."

Resolutely, House put his left sock on and stabbed his other foot into the left shoe without a word.


	21. Last name, First name

There was a method to John's madness, as House was about to find out. There was a reason why the OT sessions would be done before PT. Soaked in perspiration, with his hair sticking up wildly and looking like the Creature from the Lost Lagoon, House sat on the side of his bed with his right leg on the seat of a wheel chair, and both socks and shoes on. Then Ruth walked in.

"Oh great. Sorry for the way I look. My tux is at the cleaner's," House muttered, embarrassed.

"Good morning, Dr. House. I've seen Reggie White in his skivvies, covered in mud, sporting a broken nose, split lip, and four teeth knocked out. Compared to that, you look like George Clooney. Time to start PT today."

"Oh, goody!" House snapped. "Just what I'm in the mood for right now."

"Before I start, how is your pain right now on a scale of one to ten, where one is barely there and ten is unbearable?" Ruth asked.

"Right now, about a four," House replied.

"Does it ever reach a zero or a ten?" Ruth asked.

"No."

"What's the worst it's been?"

"About a nine. I was started on morphine then, but I also hallucinated after the morphine, so they stopped the morphine and gave me some more fentanyl through my IV. Then they increased the dosage of the fentanyl patch, and since doing that, the worst my pain has been was about a four."

"Ok. We'll be doing physical therapy twice a day. Initially, we'll do it here in your room. After I see how much progress you make, we'll determine when you're ready to go down to the physical therapy department. The most important thing right now is, I need you to tell me before each therapy session starts if the pain is unmanageable. People learn to hate physical therapy if they're in pain before we even get started; pain just makes the therapy sessions torture, and they don't need to be torture. So I'm just laying some groundwork here. Your only job right now is to tell me before each session if you're hurting too bad to do therapy. If you tell me, then I'll consult with Dr. Anderson and get the problem fixed. Deal?" Ruth asked.

"Deal." House said more confidently.

"Alrighty, then. Occupational therapy will be done first; at least that's the goal. That way you'll already be dressed and ready for PT in the morning. We're going to be seeing a lot of each other, so you can call me Ruth. Would you prefer to be called Dr. House, or is there another name you like to go by?"

"Call me House. I'm not really on a first name basis. What's your last name?"

"Masters". **(A/N – ok, stop groaning, all you Martha Masters haters ****)**

"Masters it is, then," House replied with a devilish grin.

"If you call me Masters I'll slap the shit out of you!" smiled Ruth. "No, I'm kidding. I won't slap you. But please call me Ruth. Please. I'm begging you. Do not get my ire up by calling me Masters!" she said through a genuine smile.

Wilson, overhearing the repartee, added "Be careful what you ask for, Ruth. The only time he ever uses anyone's first name is when he's firing someone. His fellows know if he calls them by their first name, they might as well turn in their badge and clean out their locker right then and there."

House grinned "Stop telling her all my secrets."

"Please continue! In the meantime… House, we're going to start with flexing, extending, and rotating your right foot. I want you to flex your right foot five times, rest 30 seconds, extend your right foot five times, rest 30 seconds, and repeat that cycle once." Watching him, she placed both hands on his leg – one under his calf and one under his thigh. His leg was already supported by the seat of the chair, so she didn't need to support it. She was using her hands gently to feel the muscles as they moved. When he completed the cycle as she asked, she removed her hands. "Good job. How's the pain?"

"No change."

"Good, then. Rest one minute then we'll start the rotation exercises." She set a timer.

"You're actually going to time me?" House exclaimed.

"Just the rest periods."

When the timer buzzed, she gently demonstrated how she wanted him to rotate his ankle. "Rotate your ankle clockwise five times, rest 30 seconds, then rotate your ankle counter-clockwise five times and rest 30 seconds. Repeat the cycle once."

Again, as he did the rotation exercises, she placed both hands gently in the same positions they were before. As expected, she could feel a little ripple in what remained of his thigh muscles, right above his knee. As she watched him, his facial expression changed abruptly from that of a grinning, confident trickster to that of a man focused on one thing – and his expression said it all. _Do this as quickly as possible so she'll let me stop._

Noting the abrupt change in his facial expression, Ruth asked "Can you finish the cycle?"

House just nodded curtly and quickly, and finished the cycle as she asked.

"Actually it wasn't that bad. That was anticipation and fear," House replied.

"Good. I want you to do those exercises, exactly the way I showed you, every two hours when you're awake. You can do those exercises while lying in bed as long as the boot is off. I believe John said it, but if he didn't I'll say it. Only wear the boot when you're sleeping in bed. If you're awake and in bed, keep the boot off and do those exercises. Ideally when you're awake during the day you should be out of bed, and you'll wear socks and those Nikes," Ruth said.

"Last thing we're going to cover this morning is how to safely transfer into and out of this wheel chair. Do not, and I repeat DO NOT transfer yourself into a wheel chair yet without a nurse or therapist there. After we're sure you can do it safely, then you're free to get yourself in and out of it. But not until I say so. Ok?"

"Lady, you run a tight ship. Whatever," House said.

"Alright. Keep the wheel chair parked at an angle next to your bed exactly the way it is now. I see John showed you how to take the arm rests off of the wheel chair. That's fine. Keep them where you can reach them, because you'll need the arm rest back on the chair to get into it safely."

"Use your hands to support your right leg. Gently slide it off of the seat of the wheel chair," Ruth advised.

House looked very doubtful.

"Go ahead. Yes, it's going to hurt, but with the fentanyl it should be bearable and your knee should bend without too much pain. Slide your leg off the seat of the wheel chair and let your foot rest on the floor."

Slowly, hesitantly, he did as she asked. His remaining thigh muscles felt like guitar strings being wound too tightly. He could feel the anterior thigh muscles stretching. Muscles that hadn't been used in awhile. They were stiff and sore.

Noting the change in his expression, Ruth interjected, "Are they just stiff from disuse or are you having pain?"

"Mostly just stiff from disuse. I'll be alright," he said as he began massaging the stiff muscles.

"When you're ready, put one arm rest back in the wheel chair." Once that was done, Ruth continued. "Ok, see how the chair is parked at a 90 degree angle to your bed? That's where the chair should always be. Make sure the brakes are locked," and she showed him how to lock the brakes "and scoot forward until your weight is on your left foot. You won't really be standing – more just like scooting over to the chair. Reach over the seat of the chair, grab the arm rest, and slide yourself over into the chair."

"Easier said than done," House said as he slowly and awkwardly did as she asked. Once seated in the chair, he flashed a silly grin as though he'd just climbed Mount Everest. "One small step for mankind…" he said.

"Oh, but you're not finished, Goofy! Soak in the limelight all you want to for now. In thirty seconds you're getting back in the bed. Then tell me how good you feel!" Ruth smiled.

"Buzzkill!"

"Call me Ruth. Getting back in the bed, you're going to park the wheel chair exactly like it is now, at an angle. Always double check to be certain that both brakes are locked. Do it now, even though they haven't been unlocked. That's a habit that will save your life." After he double checked the brakes, Ruth continued.

"Good. While you're in the hospital, you're going to use the bed rails to help get back into bed. See how there are actually four rails on the beds here? Keep the two at the head of the bed up at all times. You'll need one of them to grab onto to slide back into the bed. With the wheel chair parked and locked at this angle, grab the bed side rail right next to you. Lean forward until your weight is on your left foot, then slide over into the bed."

"Think I'm gonna need help with this one," House suggested.

"Ok, let's use a gait belt. Normally we start using a gait belt when you're ready to stand, but I don't want you standing yet. It's just a wide cloth belt we fasten loosely around your waist, for us to hold on to and give you some support." She fastened the gait belt around him. She could see him shaking with nervousness. "I won't let you fall or let the chair tip over or anything nasty like that. Trust me."

"Those are the two dumbest words in the English language. I never trust anyone. But since I doubt that you want to wind up on the floor along with me, I also doubt you will let me fall. So go ahead." With that, Ruth grabbed hold of the gait belt with both hands. She didn't pull or push on him. He just needed the reassurance that someone was supporting him so he didn't tip the chair over or fall. Holding on to the side rail of the bed for dear life, House slowly scooted back over into the bed and exhaled a huge sigh of relief.

"Damn it if I don't feel like a toddler, afraid of falling all the time. I didn't even stand up and I'm still afraid of falling," he muttered mostly to himself.

"Wouldn't be human if you didn't. That's normal. Your center of balance has changed. You'll get used to it and I'm not going to let you fall," Ruth assured him. "Your left leg will get stronger than it was before, because it will bear more weight than it did before. And the remaining thigh muscles in your right leg will get stronger too, as they develop more and take over some of the function your missing muscle used to do."

"When do you think we can try standing a little bit?"

Wilson came back into the room with lunch and nearly dropped the bags when he heard that. "Standing?" he asked, incredulously, looking first at House and then at Ruth.

"I can't stay stuck in this damn chair forever. Ruin my image," House snarked back.

"Maybe in a few days. This afternoon when I come back we're going to do some gentle knee range of motion on the right, and a few more exercises with your left leg. Don't get back in the wheel chair until I come back this afternoon."

"Don't worry. By the time you leave out this door, in the next few minutes, I'll be asleep anyway."

"No you won't. I brought Italian. You're going to eat it. Eat now, sleep later. Maybe I might have a surprise for you too," Wilson said, winking. "You never know what I might have in this bag of tricks besides Italian food."


	22. UTI

Rehab chapter 22

Ruth left and House's roommate perked his ears up again. "You got any goodies in there for me?" he asked Wilson.

"Man, you sure are pushy! Get your own stuff. This is all mine!" House exclaimed with a grin as he dove into the bag and pulled a frosty cold bottle of Guinness Extra Stout.

"Hurry up, shut the door. They didn't catch us with the illegal stuff that's against hospital policy. It'd be just my kind of luck that they WOULD catch us with the legal stuff that's ALSO against hospital policy," House said, furtively glancing around the room as if his nurse was hiding in the closet or something. "Why this country legalized alcohol but not pot is beyond me. Anyway, watch the door!" House said to Wilson.

"No thanks, I'd rather watch you. Who cares if they catch us? You can suck a beer down faster than anyone I know, so just do it. I'll enjoy one with you. I cared if we got caught with the pot. I don't care about the beer. I bet Princeton General here doesn't have a liquor license but hell, the day a grown man can't enjoy a legal alcoholic beverage with his best friend is a day I never want to see," Wilson said confidently.

"And the day you bring pot for the roommate but you don't bring beer for the roommate is the day the roommate is going to rat both of you out!" laughed House's roommate. Both men looked at him with alarm. "No, hey, chill out. I'm kidding. I told you yesterday I'm not going to rat you out. I just wanted to see you squirm. You guys are just way too cool."

"Get a life over there. Hey Wilson, got any Parmesan cheese?" House said between mouthfuls of tantalizing lasagna. He really had no appetite, though, and stopped after about three bites.

"Drink the beer before it gets warm. Alcohol plus fentanyl probably isn't the best combination but one beer with 6% alcohol won't kill ya. It has calories, too. You need the calories. Plus it just goes so damn well with Italian!" Wilson exclaimed.

A few minutes later House's beer was settled nicely in his stomach and he tried to sneak Wilson's beer and a bite of his Chicken Parmesan too. "Can't you let me enjoy my lunch in peace, just once? God, you're sick in a hospital bed… you don't even want YOUR food… but you're trying to steal mine… Geez!" Wilson laughed.

"Hmm. Beer for lunch. Wonder what I'm going to get for dinner?" House said with a smirk.

"My foot up your ass if you're friend doesn't bring some for me tonight too!" said his roommate.

House's day shift nurse walked in as the men scrambled to get rid of the bottles. "I have some good news for you. The urinary catheter can come out now."

"I was wondering about that. Nasty old thing might get infected," House said. What he _didn't_ say was that the catheter had been bothering him for some time, and he had already diagnosed himself with a urinary tract infection.

"I wouldn't be surprised. They do tend to do that," the nurse replied. Wilson excused himself for a few minutes. The nurse drew the curtain all the way around his bed for privacy, and explained the procedure. "I know you're a doctor and all but I never take anything for granted. I wouldn't like it if I was sick and someone came in to my hospital room and did something without explaining it first. I figure it wouldn't matter how much medical background I had because if I were the patient I'd be just as nervous about procedures as anyone else; maybe even more so. So pardon me if I'm telling you something you already know."

As she removed the catheter with utmost care, House steeled himself for the worst. The nurse noted some exudate around the catheter and applied some antibiotic ointment after the catheter was out. House was still holding his breath and grabbing onto the side rails with a vice-like grip, yet the catheter was out. "Dr. House, you can relax. The catheter is out. It does look infected. I put some antibiotic cream on and I'll page your doctor and see if you should be on more antibiotics."

"It's burning!" he cried. "Symptom of a UTI!"

"We'll get you on an antibiotic."

Immediately, the urge to urinate hit him. He began to scramble around the bed looking for a urinal. "I have to pee, I have to pee! I have to pee now!" he cried. The nurse reached to hand him a plastic urinal. "No, I can't pee lying down. Sit me up or something!"

"Dr. House, I don't know how we're going to…"she started. He quickly interrupted "Sit me up now! I have to pee!" Then House remembered how Ruth and John told him to slide his left leg under his right leg to maneuver his legs out of bed. Within a few minutes he was panting and sweating but had sat himself up at the bedside without any assistance. The nurse had been preoccupied with thinking about how she was going to pick him up off the floor if he fell, and she wasn't prepared for him to move so quickly. When Mother Nature calls, you need to answer quickly! Swiftly he grabbed the urinal. She made a move to help him move his gown out of the way, to which he said anxiously, "I don't need company for this. Been doing it all my life. I don't need an audience."

The nurse stepped behind the closed curtain as he finished the job. Since the catheter had just been removed, his bladder was empty – surely there couldn't be anything there. The few drops that he produced looked distinctly unhealthy, but typical of a UTI. "Take this to the lab and have them culture it," he demanded as he handed the urinal to his nurse.

Wilson walked back in to the room. He gave the nurse a gentle, encouraging pat on the back, and said "He's not a bad guy. Don't take it personally."

"I think I'd be miserable too if I had a UTI on top of all this. Urinary catheters make people quite prone to getting urinary tract infections. Immobility and the need for a fluid restriction just make it worse. I understand, and we'll take care of it," she said understandingly. "Burning of course is a symptom of a UTI and it's not uncommon for the burning to get worse when the catheter comes out. Unfortunately about the only two things that stop the burning are antibiotics and time. It usually only takes a few doses of the antibiotic before the burning stops. I know, it's miserable. I'll get him some cranberry juice. Sometimes that helps."

Meanwhile, House wasn't convinced that Mother Nature had stopped calling. Wilson ran to get him another urinal. Mindful of the need for privacy, Wilson waited outside of House's closed curtain. It was heartbreaking to hear his friend moaning softly in pain, not because of his leg but because of a simple urinary tract infection. As painful as it is to have one, it's even more painful to listen to someone you care about straining with the urge to urinate, and moaning because any attempt to satisfy that urge results in a burning that feels like a hot knife being stabbed up your urethra. Then there's the realization that this is something a friend usually can't help alleviate. Cramps can be massaged away. Headaches, you can apply a cool wet towel to the forehead. Cuts can be cleaned and bandaged. Burning from a UTI, you sit mostly helplessly while your friend suffers, waiting for the antibiotic to kick in. Very little you can do to help.

Bearing down with the unavoidable urge to pee, he was experiencing bladder spasms and burning. All House could think about was _why in the hell did I let them leave that damn catheter in so long_?

Finally he could sit up no longer. Straining to pee was only tiring him out. His bladder was empty and Wilson had an epiphany. "Hot water bottles!" he blurted out. An exhausted and very irritated House looked at him as if he was nuts. "Hot water bottles! When I was a teenager I got a bad bladder infection after I discovered the joy of sex. My mom used to make hot water bottles for me, to help with the bladder spasms while I was on the antibiotics. I can't believe I forgot that!" Wilson made some impromptu hot water bottles with disposable gloves filled with hot water, and said "Here, hold these against your lower abdomen. Trust me, it'll help stop the bladder spasms."

Casting a sideways look at Wilson, House said softly, "I'm gonna need some help here. I need to lie down first and I don't think I can get my leg back in bed." Recognizing that his friend's pride had taken quite a beating, Wilson anticipated House's need and gently lifted House's leg up into the bed before House could even finish the sentence.

Safely lying back down in bed, House reached out to snatch the two makeshift hot water bottles. He cradled them against his lower abdomen like a chimp mother clutching her baby. A few minutes later, a loud "Uuuuuuggggghhhhh" could be heard, an audible sigh of relief as the bladder spasm finally stopped.

An hour later, a bag of Cefazolin was infusing alongside House's other IV fluid. Shivering from the fever that had just begun to spike, House was in no condition for his second PT session that day with Ruth.

Ruth arrived for his afternoon PT session, quickly determined that House was not in any condition for a therapy session, and called House's physiatrist. "He's going to lose at least one entire session of PT, possibly more, because of an avoidable urinary tract infection. Does anybody know how to assess and prevent urinary tract infections?" she yelled into the phone. "Ok, sorry, I know it's not your fault. I'm frustrated because the last place he needs to be is lying in bed. With this setback, however, we may have no choice but to postpone his PT."

Any hospitalized patient is prone to getting infections simply by being in close proximity with other people who have infections. The spread of infections can be limited greatly by simple things like proper handwashing. Changing IV catheters, urine catheters and other tubes routinely (usually every three days) or removing them as quickly as possible when they are no longer needed is another way to avoid infection. In the process of moving him from ICU to his rehab hospital room, the one item that had been overlooked was House's urinary catheter. All other unnecessary tubes had been removed. His IV had been changed. His leg surgical dressings had been changed. The urine catheter had been overlooked, and by the time House realized the urine catheter hadn't been changed, it was too late to avoid the infection.

So here he laid, febrile, miserable and unable to participate in therapy, because of a simple bladder infection that could most likely have been prevented. House wondered if there was anything left of his medical mojo to save if even he couldn't figure out that he had a bladder infection from a urine catheter that had been left in for too long. From day one of clinicals, medical and nursing students are taught to monitor the patient closely for signs of infection; to change necessary tubes and IVs at least every three days, and to remove unnecessary tubes and IVs as soon as they are no longer needed. It's drilled into them. But the owner of the greatest diagnostic mind, at least on this continent, missed it.

House passed the next day in a haze of fever brought on by the UTI and diarrhea brought on by the cephazolin, the antibiotic used to cure the UTI. Due to his current relatively immobile state, it was nearly impossible to keep his right leg dressing clean and dry. It was a miracle that he didn't develop an infection there as well. Other antibiotics were added and finally the right combination was reached. Several days later, his UTI was on the mend and things looked decidedly better.

Much more alert and with the fever and burning on urination gone, House was slurping down yogurt and listening to an old James Taylor cassette tape. He was still plagued with diarrhea, something that the yogurt was supposed to stop.

"I've seen fire, and I've seen rain…" James Taylor could be heard singing in the background.

"I've seen pee, and I've seen poo…" House sang along with the cassette.

"I've seen sunny days that I thought would never end…" James Taylor crooned in the background.

"I've seen many days that I thought I'd never get through…" House sang.

"I've seen lonely nights when I could not find a friend…" James Taylor continued.

"I've seen many nights when all I've done is poo…" House sang

"But I always thought that I'd see you again…."James sang.

"And all I hope is that I'll never see you again…"House sang while staring forlornly at a bedpan.

"You still listen to cassettes? I didn't even know they still made cassette players," called his roommate from the other side of the curtain.

"Yep, and LP's too. I'd rather listen to a nice old LP or cassette than a CD any day. I like the authenticity of old recordings. They're not real to me if I can't hear the hisses, pops, and scratches. Scratches on old records mean that someone thought enough of them to play them thousands of times. They don't get scratched staying in the sleeve. In the old days of recording, they couldn't do take after take after take. In the old days when the early blues and folk field recordings were made, you got what you got during the first take – background noises and all. That's what makes these old LP's interesting. I like cassettes just because I have so many of them and what's the use of buying CDs to replace cassettes you already have? And yes, they do still make cassette players and they also make nice new turntables. The nicest piece of audio equipment I own is a Sota turntable," House replied, unsure of how to have an interesting conversation with a stranger even about a subject he loved and was well versed in – and that didn't revolve around his bodily functions.

"What kind of music you like?" his roommate asked.

"Pop, blues and jazz mostly." End of sentence. House's conversation skills with strangers were sorely lacking. He was used to ordering people around, not carrying on a conversation with a stranger that involved give-and-take. Nobody except Wilson and Stacy ever wanted to have a conversation with him.

"I like the Stones and the Grateful Dead. I also like Kid Rock. Oh, and Mary Mary," his roommate continued. "You play any instruments?"

_This is how normal people have conversations_ House thought. _Answer the question, then ask one._ "Piano, harmonica, guitar, drums and a little bit of other instruments. Do you play any? That's an interesting array of musical styles you mentioned. Pop, acid rock, southern rock and Gospel."

"Yep – I play upright and electric bass. I said I liked Grateful Dead, but not their acid rock stuff. I mean I like their covers of traditional songs – more like what Jerry Garcia did on 'That High Lonesome Sound' with Old and In The Way, or what he did on 'The Pizza Tapes' with Tony Rice and David Grisman. The first time I ever heard the full Grateful Dead band do Dark Hollow, I became a die-hard fan. What blues artists do you like?"

House reluctantly had to admit that maybe he could warm up to this guy. "Ray Charles, Pinetop Perkins, Professor Longhair, and Dr. John mostly. Why do you like Kid Rock?"

"Because I can't stop singing All Summer Long," answered the roommate truthfully. "Anybody who can record a song that I can't stop singing must have some redeeming qualities."

House chuckled at that. "You ever heard any recordings by a guy named Barrelhouse Buck? He was a blues guy who was recorded by Folkways Records back in the day. That guy could pound out a rhythm on piano like nobody else. You didn't need a drum when he was playing. He pounded out a perfect rhythm on that piano."

House added, "Oops, I'm supposed to ask you something now. Why Mary Mary?"

"Because I think they're the perfect mix of R&B and Gospel."

"Perfection is impossible," House said. _Conversations are nice; how do I end this one?_ House wondered.

"Nothing is impossible. Musicians should always strive to be perfect."

"I never said musicians shouldn't strive to be perfect. I said perfection is impossible. Musicians should strive to be as good as they can be. If perfection was possible we would suddenly become divine when we reached it. And since mortal musicians can't become divine, ….", House said.

"So you like to talk about music and all of the musicians you mentioned that you're interested in, strive to be perfect. Some are widely acknowledged to be perfect on their instruments. If Ray Charles plays a piece perfectly, he's achieved perfection, but he's not divine. Why do you equate perfection with divinity, and automatically discount perfection as being impossible to achieve?"

"Because I was raised to believe that only God is perfect. Perfect equals divine. We cannot be divine, so we cannot be perfect. And I don't believe that God exists." House said, unsure how to end the conversation and hoping that the shock value of his provocative statement would achieve that end. _I really should learn how normal people end conversations,_ House thought.

"Then it must be very depressing to work so hard at something when you go into it from the very beginning thinking that you will never be perfect at whatever that something is. I doubt that Beethoven ever performed anything in public on harpsichord or piano that he wasn't sure he could play perfectly."

"Seriously, how do we end this conversation?" House asked, smiling thinly.

"We agree to disagree."


	23. The roommate

**A/N – Beware, the M rating remains in effect for language and an explicit discussion of sexual dysfunction. Thanks to Visitkarte for clarification about incomplete spinal cord injuries. I'm re-uploading this chapter with some changes regarding House's roommate's incomplete spinal cord injury.**

An orderly whom House had never seen before arrived in House's room with Ruth and a wheel chair for his afternoon PT session. House eyed the pair with suspicion. Before Ruth could utter a word, House said "Yeah, yeah, yeah! I know! I have to haul my ass up into that thing, don't I?"

His nurse had just replaced his fentanyl patch, and the new one hadn't quite kicked in yet. He hadn't told anyone because he was wishing it would go away on its own, but his right leg had been bothering him more and more the last few hours. The incisions were burning and the feeling was getting worse. Typical of Mr. Ignore-it-and-it'll-go-away, he decided to be stoic about it and not say anything. If it's infected, they'd know soon enough. If it was just pain because his fentanyl patch was wearing off, the new one would alleviate the discomfort soon enough. So he decided he'd shut up and tough it out.

The orderly parked the wheel chair in the correct position at an angle to House's bed. Ruth alertly noticed, as House slid his legs over the side of the bed to sit up, that he was obviously in a lot more pain than she'd seen him in before. She asked him if he was in pain and of course he denied it. She asked him what his pain level was on the one-to-ten scale, and he looked at her like he'd rather slap her than answer her truthfully. She took his non-answer as indication that it was pretty bad, but since he didn't answer, the only thing she could do was proceed as carefully as possible and monitor his body language.

During the laborious process of getting into the wheel chair independently, House did everything he could do to conceal how badly his leg was hurting. _Maybe this is all in my mind. The new fentanyl patch has had plenty of time to start working,_ he thought. _I must be making it worse than it really is. _But his body language told the whole story. Every move he made was accompanied by more and more grimacing and grunting. "Dr. House, if you won't tell me how bad it's hurting, it becomes more difficult for me to decide what to do about it. Obviously you're hurting. Please tell me how bad it is on the scale."

House answered "Just get on with it. I'm dealing."

House's roommate piped up. "Yeah, and how well were you 'dealing' an hour ago when all I could hear from your side of the room was grunting? Why didn't you tell the nurse how bad you were hurting?"

House glared at him. "Shut up and mind your own stupid business. Stay out of mine."

"I wish I was as lucky as you are," blurted out his roommate. House just looked at him incredulously.

"Oh, this is going to be fun," Ruth said.

Although he was adequately covered up, House automatically put his right hand down over his right leg to cover up the scar. It didn't need covering up, but he'd already grown so used to doing that, it had become second nature. When he inadvertently put a little pressure on the incision, he couldn't suppress another grimace. Ruth didn't see it because he was facing forward and she was pushing the wheel chair from behind.

They arrived in the physical therapy department. The first thing House did was to look around at all the other patients undergoing therapy. He wasn't as concerned with their injuries as he was about what they thought of him. In his mind, he was convinced that everyone was staring at him. In reality, there was nothing to stare at, because the incision was covered by a dressing. In his mind, though, everyone could see through the dressing and see what a huge ugly crater he had on his leg. In his mind, everyone had already judged him as being a pathetic cripple with a huge ugly scar. In reality, everyone else was so focused on their individual therapy that nobody even noticed him.

The first task was to transfer out of the wheel chair and onto a large padded platform. The platform was about the size of a king sized bed, about three feet off the floor, with padding about six inches thick. He insisted on transferring himself even though Ruth and the orderly could plainly see that he needed help. The orderly attempted to help him and House shoved him aside so strongly it took the young man by surprise. The orderly, a nice easy going fellow, said "Sorry. I didn't want you to fall and you looked like you needed help." House opened his mouth to say something, then thought better of it. He just clamped his mouth shut bitterly and stared at the floor.

"Dr. House." Ruth addressed him, and he refused to look at her.

"Dr. House. I need your attention." Ruth stated.

He looked at her and said nothing. "Before we start the first exercise I really do need to know what's going on. Obviously something is wrong. What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Just get on with it. The sooner we do this, the sooner I can go back up to my room."

"Dr. House, these are not the kind of exercises we can rush through. I need to know what's wrong."

"Nothing's wrong," he said as he returned to staring at the floor.

"Ok. The first exercise, then, is with a weighted band around your left ankle. It's a one pound weight. Over the next few days, we're going to build up gradually to where you're doing this with a five pound weight." She applied the weighted band around his left ankle. "Extend and then relax your knee, wait thirty seconds, and repeat. Do the cycle five times." He did as she asked. The entire time he performed the cycle, he stared at the floor and would maintain no eye contact with her or anyone else.

"Good. The purpose of this exercise is to build added strength in your left leg. Your left leg is going to be taking on some added work when you start walking, so we have to build up the strength now. Take a one minute breather and then repeat the cycle." He did as she asked, again silently and with absolutely no eye contact.

"Ok, good. While you're taking a breather, we're going to fit you with a walker and your own wheel chair. Initially you're just going to use the walker to get into the wheel chair."

At this House completely fell apart. He knew everyone could see and hear him blubbering away, but could do nothing to stop the flow of tears. Ruth said calmly,

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"Yeah, I can see nothing is wrong. So what's wrong?" she asked persistently. "I can only help fix it if I know what's wrong."

"I don't want a fucking walker. I don't want a fucking wheel chair. I'm 45 years old. I don't want to look like I'm 85." House spluttered through a torrent of tears.

Ruth sat down on the platform next to him and let him cry it out. When he came up for air, he looked forlorn and utterly depressed. But he looked at her. He looked to her for help, although he still didn't want to tell her the whole truth about what was wrong.

"I understand. I wish I could tell you it's all going to be alright, or that you'll get over it, but I'm not the one in your position." She sat next to him and gave him time to process his thoughts.

"My leg hurts," House blurted out amidst a fresh onslaught of tears. He really looked like he didn't want to say that at all. He looked like he wanted to keep it in, but just couldn't anymore. He looked like he was mortified by the fact that he was crying. He kept sniffling and snuffling, burying his face in Kleenex, trying anything he could think of to stifle the tears.

"I figured that. What is it on the scale?" Ruth replied.

"About a nine."

Immediately Ruth checked to be sure his fentanyl patch hadn't come off. It was still intact. "How long has it been at a nine?"

"Since before you walked into my room."

"Does Dr. Anderson know how bad it is?" Ruth asked.

"I doubt it. I don't think he's been in to see me yet today."

"Do you mind if I have a look at your dressing? I'm not going to take it off, but I am going to call the nurse and let her know you're coming back from PT early today because of the pain. They need to know you're hurting this bad," Ruth said.

She gently rolled up his right pajama pant leg and the problem was immediately obvious. "Dr. House, they need to look at this. It's draining. There is purulent drainage coming through your dressing. No wonder you're hurting worse than usual. We have cold packs down here. Do you mind if I try a cold pack on that leg and see if it helps?"

"Yes, I do mind. I know you're trying to help but I don't want any ice packs. Take me back up to my room. I want to talk to my doctors."

Ruth rolled him back up to his room. Upon passing through the door, House was in too much distress to notice it but Ruth noticed his roommate glaring angrily at him. Hoping and praying that his roommate would keep quiet at least until he was back in bed, Ruth parked the wheel chair in the proper position at an angle to his bed and offered help. This time he accepted it, and the transfer back to bed was accomplished without too much difficulty. The pain was written all over his face. Ruth pressed the nurse call light to let the nurse know that he was back in his bed. Within five minutes the nurse was there with Dr. Anderson.

Thirty minutes later Dr. O'Malley was there as well. The dressing had been removed. Several stitches had come out. The incision was red, warm, very painful locally, and draining purulent drainage. "House, this looks infected. We're going to culture the drainage, continue you on your current antibiotic, add vancomycin and I'm going to leave the sutures out so it can continue to drain. In the meantime, you can continue PT and OT but not down in the department. They'll do it up here until the urinary tract and wound infections clear up," O'Malley said.

Just what he wanted to hear. The look on his face was heartbreaking. Dr. Anderson ordered a fentanyl booster to be given intravenously and ordered a higher dose of his fentanyl patch. "I don't know how much more of this I can take," House said to nobody in particular. Anderson said, "Mind if I sit next to you?"

"Doesn't matter to me," House replied absently.

"This is surmountable. It's unfortunate but it's surmountable. Let the fentanyl booster take effect, then we'll talk in a few minutes if you're still awake."

"Ok," House replied apathetically.

The nurses changed shifts. It was now evening shift. Dr. Anderson stayed with him while the additional fentanyl took effect. "Feeling better now?" he asked as House's eyes were beginning to droop a little.

"Yeah." House's replies were still much too apathetic for Anderson's comfort. Pain exacerbates depression, but depression also exacerbates pain. Dr. Anderson could take care of the pain. "What is it now on the pain scale?"

"Zero."

"Ok. Good. That's the goal. That's how you should feel ALL the time. I'm going to talk to the nursing and therapy staff. It's not their fault – the protocol is very specific. It states they are to assess your pain level at least once every four hours. If you report anything between one and four, there are steps on the protocol for them to take including giving you extra fentanyl IV. If you report anything over a four, they're to call me and give you a fentanyl booster. It's recorded on your chart that they asked you but you didn't answer. I also have ibuprofen on the protocol. By itself it wouldn't help you much, but in combination with fentanyl, it's quite effective in small doses. If you reported a four on the pain scale, the protocol states to give you a fentanyl booster or fentanyl plus ibuprofen. So, here's the plan. I went up on your fentanyl patch. That should take care of it. I'm going to make sure they assess non-verbal indicators of pain too. People in pain don't always want to say they're in pain, but the body language tells all. I'm also going to give you some tools you can use independently to keep track of your pain. It's called a pain diary. The first page is a pain assessment – it's just four scales, and all you do is make a mark on each scale. The second page is a pain inventory. It's pretty self-descriptive. When you think about it, fill out the scales and leave them in your room. That way if you're asleep or out of your room when the nurse comes by, they'll still be able to assess your pain. They'll still ask you personally, of course."

"Why is it all of a sudden hurting a lot more? It's hurting much more than it did right after the surgeries," House said.

"Because it's infected. That's why fentanyl is such a good choice. It's short acting, so when the infection clears up you probably won't need as much and we can taper it down pretty easily."

"House, I'm going to ask you one thing before I leave tonight. Please answer them truthfully when they ask you to rate your pain. I know you probably want to ignore it; most guys tend to be stoic, like it's a sign of weakness to say you're in pain. That's very typical and understandable, but my goal is to take your pain all the way down to a zero and keep it there. I can't do that if you don't answer them truthfully. You should not have suffered as long as you did today. I'm guessing that when you didn't answer them, they thought that meant you were not in pain. I expect your caregivers to ask you at least every four hours to rate your pain, and I expect you to answer them truthfully. I'm going to instruct them that if you don't answer, they're to use a non-verbal pain assessment tool and treat you anyway if they think you need it."

Anderson left and House was completely exhausted. Pain is very exhausting in and of itself. When Dr. Anderson left the room, House's roommate took advantage of the situation. The roommates were alone. Wilson was still seeing patients at PPTH and wouldn't be over to see House until later that evening. House's roommate, seeing that they were now alone, pounced.

"You're such a whining little baby. You have no idea how lucky you are," his roommate announced.

House was stunned. All he could say for the moment was "What the hell?"

"Ok, maybe I shouldn't have said you're a whining little baby. But you have no idea how lucky you are. Do you have any idea what's wrong with me? You never asked me, so either you're not interested or you already know."

"No, I don't know, and I'm not interested, either." House retorted.

"Well since I've already heard all about your issues, I'm going to tell you about mine. I'm sorry that you're not interested. I was in a car wreck four weeks ago," the roommate started.

"And?" House said irritably.

"And have you seen me get myself out of this bed? No. That's because I can't. I need a Hoyer lift to get out. They're training my girlfriend on how to put me in the thing. They tell me I'm about to graduate and start using a sliding board to slide my ass into the wheel chair. Whoop de do."

"So you're paralyzed?" House said, still irritated and a bit apathetic. It was just a matter of fact question. He wasn't concerned about his roommate. He just felt like he had to make a comment, and wasn't sure what else to say.

"So I'm paralyzed. I'm paraplegic. I can't move or feel my legs."

"I know what the word means," House shot back angrily. "I don't want to hear this."

"I have to listen to all your crap. Now you're going to listen to mine. They told me my spinal cord injury was incomplete – I guess that means the cord wasn't completely severed. They gave me some stuff to reduce the swelling around the cord injury and they operated to stabilize my spinal cord, but I don't know if I'm going to get any recovery or not. They tell me that if I'm going to get any recovery, it could be months or years away. I was engaged to my girlfriend before my injury. She wanted kids and everything. You know what she told me yesterday? She told me it would be Ok with her if we didn't have any kids. She thinks that since I can't get it up, I'd be happy if we didn't have any kids. Like I'm all of a sudden supposed to accept the fact that I can't have intercourse with her."

"Being paralyzed doesn't mean you can't have intercourse and doesn't mean that you can't make babies," House said sarcastically. "And an incomplete cord injury means that you stand a chance of full or at least partial recovery. Even if you can't 'get it up', have you ever heard of penile implants and artificial insemination?"

"I'M A FUCKING CRIPPLE!" shouted his roommate. "Who wants to fuck a guy that can't feel anything from the waist on down?"

"I'm a fucking cripple too, and I don't go around yelling about how I can't get it up. With all this shit I'm taking for pain, I probably won't be able to get it up either. Not that I've tried yet but when I do I'll probably wind up having to take Viagra or something like that. But you don't hear me complaining about it," House fired back.

"No, I just hear you whining and moaning and you're in all this pain. Big fucking deal. I wish I could feel pain. They come back and check on you all the time and they're so concerned about how much pain you're in. I wish I could tell them I was having pain too. I don't feel pain. I can't. I am already starting to have bedsores on my butt and ankles and they should hurt but they don't because I can't feel anything. I had a fucking UTI too and I didn't know it because I can't feel the burning. I didn't know I had a UTI until I had one of those scary autonomic reactions and my whole body shut down. They turn me every two hours and wipe my ass for me and they tell me I should be learning to do these things for myself but I can't and I hate it. After my UTI, they pulled my urine catheter, but then discovered I can't piss on my own. I have to have a catheter to take a piss. But they can't leave it in all the time because of infection. They want to teach me how to catheterize myself every few hours. Wow. I have to shove a tube up my own dick just to take a pee, and I can't even have the fun of jerking off when I'm done. I wish I had one one-hundredth of the functionality you have."

At a momentary loss for words, House yanked the curtain between their beds back far enough so that he could look the other man directly in the eyes.

"Listen, you moronic idiot. You should be in my shoes for ten minutes. You want to feel pain? I'd be ecstatic to give you just a little bit of what I have to feel constantly. And it's never going to go away. You might recover mobility and sensation. I will never be out of pain. So you have to use a wheel chair. Well guess what. So do I. You may get out of yours. You might recover complete, normal functionality. I won't. They tell me that, at best, I'll require a cane or a walker for the rest of my life."

Both men stopped talking. House decided he was going to try again to get a private room. His roommate wanted to try to repair the damage. Both men were hurting, and not just in the physical sense.

After a very long and uncomfortable silence, House's roommate broke the stalemate. "I got a call from an old band mate last week. We haven't talked in a long time, so he didn't know I was hurt. He called my house and my girlfriend got the message. He wanted to get back together again for some gigs. We met in New Orleans years ago, played some jazz and blues clubs in New Orleans and Memphis for a few years, then we broke up. He went his way, and I went mine. I heard he went back to New Orleans and formed another band with some other guys."

"Well, you still have your arms and your hearing. No reason you can't still play bass," House said. He really wanted to be left alone, but didn't have the energy to continue arguing with this guy or trying to come up with sarcastic ways to shut him up.

"You should get your friend to bring in your guitar. You said you play guitar, right?" his roommate replied.

"Yeah, but I'm not in the mood. There's something about two infections, pain, and floating in a cloud of narcotics that just kind of takes the fun out of playing an instrument right about now." House was not in the mood to talk. If the guy had any idea how close House was to telling him to fuck off, he didn't seem to realize it. If anything, House's roommate seemed to be getting more animated, more talkative.

"Yeah, I can't believe Crandall called. I had completely forgotten about him," said the roommate.

"What did you call him?" House was immediately intrigued.

"Crandall. Guy's name is Dylan Crandall. I met him right out of high school. We really had a kick-ass blues band. He played sax."

"Yeah, I know." House replied, staring intently at his roommate.

"How can you possibly….we never recorded anything! How can you possibly know that? Did you ever see our performances?"

"Nope. I was in a pretty good blues band too. You know how it is. One guy knows another guy, and so on and so on. Crandall was friends with our drummer. We needed a fill-in sax player, and our drummer called Crandall. One thing led to another, and pretty soon he was our full time sax player and I slept with his girlfriend. She was crazy and you know how naïve he is. I thought I was doing him a favor. I hear he's writing books about jazz musicians now," House said with a smart-ass look.

"Oh my god. Well, it sure would be fun to get back together with him."

"Yeah, we could call ourselves the Crips. No, that's taken. I guess I ought to ask your name seeing as we seem to have some kind of weird pseudo-relative in common," House snarked at him.

"Tim. Tim O'Reilly."

"Well, Tim Tim O'Reilly. I need to sleep now. Say hi to Crandall for me if you talk to him, but I'm not in the mood for a reunion."


	24. Body Image

Rehab chapter 24

**A/N – I realize I wrote House a bit OOC here when he starts expressing his feelings but that's all part of dealing with altered body image. **

"Dr. House, I've got good news for you. You requested a private room, and one just became available," the evening shift charge nurse informed him at about 7 pm that night.

Wilson had just arrived, tired from a full day's worth of patients but even more concerned about House's apathy. Wilson knew that to do well in therapy, it helps to have a positive outlook. House's attitude was anything but positive. In fact, it was downright shitty. Wilson's formerly sarcastic, quick-witted and articulate friend would now talk to nobody but Wilson. Even when talking with Wilson, House's apathy was just painfully obvious. Gone was the sparkle in his eye, the sarcasm in his voice, the "I'm smarter than all of you all put together, and I'm not afraid to show it" attitude. His tone of voice was dull and his face was completely expressionless. He would answer questions, but not initiate the conversation. It was like House was a different guy. Worse yet was the fact that House had, for the most part, stopped talking to anyone else. When pressed for an answer, House's standard reply was "Whatever." Getting him to eat anything was becoming more and more difficult. If Wilson wasn't there when House was served his meal, House wouldn't eat anything and the tray would be taken away completely untouched. In order to be sure he ate enough, Wilson had to be there for each meal and basically coerce or bribe him into eating something substantial. Wilson tried to convince House to get up in the wheel chair so they could eat in the dining room. He thought if House got out of his room, it would lighten his mood. House didn't want to be seen in public at all.

"House, this isn't going to work."

"Whatever."

"I'm going to ask your physiatrist to call a psych consult."

"Whatever."

"When was the last time you got out of your room to the disability support group meeting?"

"I don't know."

"Not good. I know you feel like you're stuck in this room because of the infections. You can still leave the room. They just don't want you going down to physical therapy. No reason why we can't just go for a walk or something."

"Asinine choice of words."

"Oh, give me a break! You know what I mean," Wilson replied.

"You don't know anything."

"I know this isn't you."

"What makes you think I want anyone else to see this?" House shouted angrily, jabbing at his leg. "Ouch, shit… oh damn…. Ow…didn't mean to do that…." He cradled his thigh in both hands, squeezing his eyes shut. "I'm losing it, Wilson," he said quietly.

"Yeah," Wilson said quietly.

"I don't think getting a private room is such a good idea," Wilson added.

Blubbering softly and snuffling into his hands trying, unsuccessfully, to hide the fact that he was crying, House said "But it's my decision. I don't want people to see me like this."

"You're right, it is your decision. I won't stand in your way but I think hiding out in a room by yourself – even with me there – is not good. I think you and Tim are good for each other. Like I said I won't stand in your way."

"I know it's stupid to focus on what I can't do but look at this shit. Who wants to see this?" House pointed to the dressing on his leg which, by this point, had become saturated again with drainage. "I can't even wear those stupid hospital pants because they're wet an hour later. This is disgusting."

"House, the infection will clear up! Is that all that's bothering you?" Wilson asked.

"No."

"What is it, then?"

"I can't talk about it. I don't want to talk about it. I want to be left alone, in my own room."

Wilson acquiesced. "Ok, I'll let up on you; but sooner or later you're going to have to talk about it."

Tim had a pretty good idea what the problem was. "House, I'm sorry."

That earned him a glare from House and nothing more.

"I said I'm sorry."

"I heard you the first time," House retorted.

"Everybody has their own bridges to cross. Hell, I can't even get anywhere close to mine, so I have no idea how I'm going to cross it. I know you got yours too. I'm sorry I yelled at you," said Tim.

"You know what's the worse than getting yelled at for this?" House said, looking at Wilson but talking to both men. "Everyone who knows me thinks I'm nothing but a sarcastic jerk. I have feelings too, but I'm not allowed to express them because when I do I'm treated like a pariah."

"House, I've never…" blurted Wilson.

"You refuse to acknowledge my feeling that I don't want anyone to look at me right now. That's all it is. You chalked it up to depression. I'm not proud of how I look and there's no way to cover this ugly ass thing up. Even when I can start wearing pants again, I still feel like all I'm trying to do is cover this ugly thing up. You," he said, looking at Tim, "don't look any different from any other guy except you are using a chair for now. I look like a cadaver from an anatomy class that a first year medical student practiced leg surgery on and botched it up."

Neither Wilson nor Tim said anything. House looked like he didn't want to say anything more either, but the silence was too uncomfortable and someone had to break it. "I didn't know you felt like that," Wilson said. "You go around in wrinkled clothes and three days' worth of growth on your face. Who knew you care how you look?"

"Yeah. Chicks dig the rugged handsomeness. But see, here's how it all adds up now. The clothes and the gorgeous face are a positive 100, that's for sure. The big draining hole in the leg, that's a negative 100. Positive 100 plus negative 100 equals a big fat zero."


	25. Music Therapy

Rehab chapter 25

**A/N – Rating remains M for graphic descriptions of normal bodily functions. **

The next day proved to be the busiest day House could remember since his admission to the hospital.

From the moment he woke up the following morning after the disagreement with Tim, it seemed like things would continue drifting southward. The nurse did move him to his new private room. Just as Wilson said, though, the loneliness proved to be unbearable. House was too proud to admit that Wilson was right; it was a mistake to move to a private room.

The first day in his new room started off badly when his "hot" scrambled eggs and bacon arrived in the wrong room. His breakfast tray was mistakenly delivered to his old room. An aide quickly delivered the tray to the correct room, but hospital food gets cold quickly even when it's delivered promptly and to the correct destination.

House actually had an appetite for breakfast this morning. When the aide delivered his tray after its unexpected delay, the food was cold. There's nothing quite like congealed, cold scrambled eggs to turn your stomach. The sight of cold scrambled eggs and bacon switched his appetite off like a light switch. The aide promptly reheated his food but the eggs looked even more revolting after they came out of the microwave. So, for the umpteenth time, House's breakfast tray went back to the kitchen completely untouched. The nurse's aide assigned to his care prepared hot oatmeal for him but that was even less appealing than the cold congealed eggs.

After the untouched breakfast tray was removed from his room, John from occupational therapy came up for his morning session. He'd expected to find House partly dressed with a hospital gown on. Rehab patients are encouraged to wear street clothes, not hospital garb, as much as possible because the act of dressing is part of therapy. House couldn't wear street clothes yet because of his IVs. What John found was somewhat disconcerting because it was obvious House was not interested in participating in anything today. House lay in bed apathetically staring at a test pattern on the TV and would not maintain any eye contact with John or even acknowledge John's presence in the room. House had made no attempt to get up in the wheel chair as John and Ruth had encouraged him to do. House was quite capable of getting himself up in the wheel chair at this point.

"Dr. House, time to get dressed!" John said cheerfully, trying to assess how best to get House to participate in therapy today. "Up and at 'em!"

"No."

"'No' isn't in my vocabulary today," John smiled. "I can't force you to do anything, but you do have to look at my ugly mug for the next hour. I can show off my talents reciting verses from the Bible at you for the next hour, or we can accomplish something with therapy – whatever you'd prefer."

"What a wonderful choice."

"From the book of Genesis…," began John.

"Therapy!" smiled House wanly. House didn't have it in him to really argue with anyone today.

"Gown on first, then up in the chair. Then we'll do something interesting," John said.

"Can't wait," House stated without emotion, as he donned a hospital gown and slowly got himself out of bed into the wheel chair.

True to his word, Dr. Anderson had kept a close eye on House's pain management. House had to admit that being able to keep a written record of his pain using the tools Dr. Anderson gave him was very therapeutic. Using House's pain management reports, Dr. Anderson was able to stabilize him on a particular dose of the fentanyl patch and House hadn't had any pain spikes in the last 12 hours or so. His pain level was hovering at about a 1 or 2 and House had to admit that he'd actually had a pain-free night last night.

When John read House's records and discovered that his pain was much better controlled the last 12 hours or so, it was a mystery why House really didn't seem to want to participate in any therapy today. He wasn't really fighting the therapy. He was just too apathetic to care.

Then John saw the draining mess on House's leg after House got up in the wheel chair. The dressing, which had just been changed an hour or so before John arrived, was already saturated again. House was clearly embarrassed and grabbed a bed sheet to cover his leg before John could get a really good look at it.

"Dr. House, don't be embarrassed. We'll cover it up. I can't really change the dressing or anything but it does help me to have a look at it first so I know what I'm dealing with when I do your therapy. I take it you're on antibiotics?"

"A shitload," was the terse reply. "Literally. Ever heard what antibiotics do to your digestive system?"

"So we can't stray too far from a toilet. I think I can manage that. I'm going to ask your nurse to re-dress your leg and as soon as that's done, we're going for a ride," John said.

A few short minutes later, House had a clean dressing on his leg and John was coercing and cajoling House to venture out of his room. "Come on, you can do it! I can push if you really want me to, but after you get a taste of my driving, I think you'll want to take over. If you don't mind weaving all over the place, let me push you!" smiled John. "Come on, you got to find something funny about all this," John continued. "I'm serious – if you don't push yourself out of that room, I'm gonna get behind that chair, and I don't think you want me driving you anywhere."

Cursing and snarling the whole time, House grabbed the wheels of the chair and pushed himself out of the room. "Anything to get you to shut UP!" House snarled. John smiled even wider. A fighting attitude is better than none at all. Two feet in front of his room, in the hospital hallway, House stopped. "Ok, so I'm out. Now can I go back?"

"Nope. I have a nice surprise for you. This is the best occupational therapy exercise in the world, and I've heard you're quite good at this. I can't wait," John bubbled as he continued, "for you to keep going down the hall this way." John motioned for House to follow him.

House fired back "Well since I'm good at everything, and we're not at PPTH, the only thing I know is that you're not leading me back to my office so I can outsmart you in front of my fellows with my diagnostics chops. Slow down, I'm following!"

About halfway down the hall of the rehab wing, House slowed to a halt. Huffing and puffing, he said in a much meeker tone of voice, "Hey, idiot, stop! If you don't want me to create a traffic jam right here in the hallway, you're going to have to push me. But I'm not leaving this floor."

"Oh, don't worry – the surprise is in the rehab patient dining room right down the hall. Nobody's in there. For now, at least for the remainder of the hour, we have it by ourselves. It's worth your while," John said gently as he slowly pushed House to their destination.

As they rounded the corner and entered the rehab patient dining room, a stunning surprise awaited House.

Ruth and one of the physical therapy aides were sitting on the bench of a beautifully restored old black Story and Clark baby grand piano.

"Some richie rich donated this to us a few years ago. Not too many people know how to play it very well. Most of the time it sits here closed up, gathering dust. A few idiots keep putting plants on top of it even though we take the plants off every time we find them there," John said.

House sat there in stunned silence, not quite knowing how to react. It had been weeks since he'd touched his beautiful baby at home, and oh, how he missed it. But in order to play the piano well, one needs to be able to play the pedals. Right-handed pianists tend to use their right foot on the pedals. The logistics of how he was going to manage this were daunting, but already, the gears in his head were moving and after a few moments he motioned Ruth and the aide to get up and move the bench out of the way. He rolled right up to the piano and loosened up with some scales and a few bars of "Chopsticks".

Then he backed up and stared at the pedals as if they were adversaries to be conquered instead of old friends to be welcomed back.

"So you play, huh?" Ruth smiled. "John and I have been researching some aspects of music therapy and how we can use our patients' talents in their therapy programs. When most people hear the term 'music therapy', they think of the practice of using music therapeutically to help people. That's not what we're talking about here. When we have patients who are also musicians, we want to use their musical talents as part of their therapy. It isn't some fly-by-night thing that isn't well thought out. The idea is to use the physical act of playing an instrument as part of one's therapy. To participate in our music therapy program, participants must be able to play an instrument or sing. We aren't about teaching people how to play. We're about teaching patients how to use their instrument in their therapy."

John and Ruth looked at House to gauge his reaction. The spark was back in his eyes.

"Explain!" House said eagerly.

"Let me give you an example. Say a patient comes into rehab who plays the drums. Playing drums involves the whole body especially if you play a whole drum kit, with the bass drum. It involves all four extremities, usually all at the same time, doing something different. It requires some degree of physical strength and a great amount of coordination. The patient gets a complete assessment of their abilities, just like you did, before we start therapy of any kind. We take the ability that the patient currently has and focus on that using the drums or whatever the patient plays. If you were a paraplegic who used to play the drums, we'd get you right back on the drum kit again, using specifically prescribed drum exercises to strengthen fingers, arms and hands. We'd use a metronome, build up your drumming speed, which has the wonderful side effect of also building up finger, hand and arm strength. Then we'd move on to using whatever adaptive equipment was necessary to enable the paraplegic drummer to play the bass (kick) drum and high hat, drums that require use of a pedal."

The cynical, hard-bitten House tried very hard to hide his excitement at what he was hearing. One of his many mottoes was "if it sounds too good to be true, it is." But John and Ruth were getting through to him, at least a little. Dare he hope for some fun?

"Go on," House said.

"We hear you play the piano." _God, I wonder what blabbermouth told them that? _House thought to himself, knowing all the while it had to be Wilson. Good old Wilson. House nodded slowly.

"You're right handed, correct?" But while John was in the middle of asking that question, House plunged right in with a nice Dr. John number. Eyes closed, he reveled in the joy that playing the piano always brought him. He was oblivious to anyone else in the room; simply enjoying the moment while it lasted.

By the time he finished the song and opened his eyes, the dining room was packed with doctors, nurses, and other patients. Ruth and John started clapping. Wilson wandered into the room during the last few bars of the song, having heard the piano when he got off the elevator. House seemed quite embarrassed. Playing the piano was a personal thing for him. It brought him pleasure. He didn't play for other people. He played for himself. The applause was unexpected and unnerving. House didn't know how to react. Wilson saw his discomfort and moved quickly to sit next to him. For House's ears only, Wilson whispered "See? You could have no legs at all. Nobody's looking at your legs. They like YOU."

House stayed at the piano, head down and eyes closed in total relaxation. Since he apparently was finished playing for the time being, the other occupants of the room wandered out slowly, leaving Ruth, John, House and Wilson alone in the dining room.

"Well, that wasn't quite what we intended; that was actually much more than we intended. Wow! That was awesome!" Ruth smiled.

John continued, "Let me explain the plan. Since your injury is in the right leg, we'll start by developing added strength and coordination in your left arm. The reason for that is because when you graduate to using a cane, which you will, you'll use it in your left hand. You'll find that added strength and coordination in your left arm may come in quite handy. For the next few days, when I do your occupational therapy, it'll be in here. Piano will be a part of your OT, but not all of it. When you're playing the piano during OT and any other time you want, play the left hand only. Work on scales. Start slowly and build up speed over time. You can also play anything else you want when you're not in OT. For the purposes of occupational therapy, here are the exercises to work on with your left hand." John presented House with sheet music containing piano exercises for the left hand only.

Ruth added, "From a physical therapy standpoint, John's right about cane use and developing added strength and coordination in your left hand. Most right-handed people tend to use their left hand just to follow whatever the right is doing. Since you'll be using a cane or some other assistive device permanently, in your left hand, we need to get your left hand 'thinking independently', so to speak. Means it's time to make it stronger and even more coordinated than your right hand."

House really enjoyed what he was hearing and wanted to stay right where he was. He wished everyone else would leave so he could close his eyes and go back to some old sweet tune again on the piano. This was better than any sedative. But one can only sit in a wheel chair for so long before joints and muscles stiffen and the patient needs to move. Mother Nature was calling, and worst of all, he wasn't sure he had time to get to a bathroom. _Wonderful._

House started squirming a little in the chair. The more he squirmed, the more pain he was in; but it was either squirm or else just let go and poop all over the place right there in the dining room. Finally he said, softly, "Wilson."

The situation was apparent to everyone. Wilson grabbed the wheel chair and broke the speed limit heading for the bathroom.

When they got to the bathroom, Wilson wasted no time pulling House's underwear down and bodily lifting his friend, bridal style, out of the wheel chair and on to the toilet.

House was absolutely mortified. Being a typical guy, the farting sounds and the sounds and smells that came after that were just part and parcel of being a guy. That wasn't what he was embarrassed about. And for the first time, he wasn't even embarrassed about Wilson seeing the saturated dressing on his leg. What he was mortified about was the idea that Wilson had to break the speed limit GETTING him there. House wanted to push the chair by himself, get himself on the toilet, and poop in private. But if left to do it himself like he wanted, by the time House pushed the chair to the bathroom, pulled his underwear down and slid over to the toilet, there'd be a trail of you-know-what all the way from the dining room to the bathroom. _Yet another wonderful side-effect of antibiotics,_ House thought. "I don't need company in here!" House yelled at Wilson while finishing what he was in there to do. "Can't a guy get some privacy? I can wipe my own ass!"


	26. Support

Maureen had thirty years' experience as a social worker; the last ten of which were spent specifically helping rehabilitate patients with physical disabilities. The responsibilities of a rehab social worker vary widely, and include helping patients with insurance problems, helping patients find or maintain suitable employment, and helping patients find suitable, physically accessible housing. They have a myriad of responsibilities and their workload is often daunting with a large number of patients to care for at any one time. Patients often find they are more comfortable sharing sensitive information with a social worker than they are with a doctor. Often patients who actually need psychiatric care from a medical doctor find that they are more comfortable getting counseling from a social worker. Patients in emotional distress often benefit greatly from the counseling of a good social worker.

Maureen was about to visit House for the first time. During the initial visit, a social worker completes a formal assessment of the patient. The questions asked are often quite sensitive and it takes a good, empathetic social worker to establish trust and get helpful answers from the patient.

Having read his chart and spoken with his physicians, Maureen had a good background knowledge of House's issues. She prepared for her interview with House by letting the nurses know the previous day what time she would come up to see him the next day. The expectation was that the nurse would tell House the day before, so that Maureen's visit wouldn't be a surprise. Maureen wanted House to know ahead of time that she was coming and why she was coming. She didn't want him to think he was a charity case and that she was only seeing him because someone ordered her to. She wanted him to know that she visits all rehab patients, even if they don't have an order for a social worker consult, just to make sure they don't have any unfulfilled needs.

Maureen spoke with the day shift nurse prior to going into House's room, to make sure that he knew she was coming and that she could have about an hour uninterrupted with him. The nurse replied that PT was due up any minute, but she could try to get his morning PT session rescheduled. Such is the busy life of a hospital patient.

Maureen knocked on the door prior to entering House's room. That act alone earned her some respect in House's mind. Caregivers often forget to knock on the door before entering. Years of experience taught her not to have any preconceived notions about patients before meeting them for the first time. Maureen was prepared for whatever she might find.

House was not surprised to see her, having been informed of her visit the day before. Surprisingly enough, he wasn't anti-social worker, either. This whole experience was beating into him the idea that he was going to have to learn to trust _somebody_. The hard-bitten cynicism was still there, but he was smart enough to know that in order to recover enough mobility to be able to function independently at home, he was going to have to comply with his rehab routine. He knew that his feelings were going to have to be addressed, too, even if he never wanted to admit publicly how hard this was for him to adjust to.

"Good morning, Dr. House. My name is Maureen Smith. I'm the rehab social worker. I visit all rehab patients routinely, just to make sure any needs you might have are being addressed. I take it the nurses told you ahead of time that I was coming, correct?"

"Correct."

"Good! May I have about thirty minutes or so of your time this morning?"

_Great, she's killing me with politeness!_ House thought with a hint of his old sarcasm. _Bite your tongue_, said the angel on his other shoulder.

"Sure, if Ruth doesn't barge in on us. I'm due for PT any minute now."

"No problem. I believe that the nurse called Ruth and they may be rescheduling your morning PT."

There are several schools of thought as to how best to earn patients' trust when having to confront sensitive issues. One is to ask open-ended questions. Talkative patients may talk your ear off with lengthy answers, but depressed patients may just give you what they think you want to hear or else no useful answer at all. Another is to ask closed-ended questions that can be answered by a simple Yes or No. These are useful to get answers from depressed patients who may not otherwise talk, but often you will not get all the details that you need. Maureen had found that the best approach is sometimes to just tell the patient up front why she's there and what information she needs. That way it's their choice whether or not they want to share the needed information, and it gives the patient more of a sense of control over the situation.

"What sap told you I needed help?" House asked.

Maureen smiled. "Nobody. I visit every patient at least once. After the initial visit, if it's determined that my help is still needed, I set up subsequent visits until my help is no longer needed. You were on my list of patients I hadn't seen yet. That's all."

"I have an evaluation form that I fill out on every patient. Sometimes these forms are kind of boring and predictable, though, and I can usually get some of the answers for the form from your chart. So rather than ask redundant questions, I'd like to first ask you to just give me a general idea how things are going for you. How well is your pain being managed?"

_Since when do social workers ask about pain?_ House thought. "You kind of caught me off guard with that. I mean I'm glad you asked, but I thought you all dealt with insurance issues and discharge planning and stuff like that."

"We can't consider your discharge planning complete until we know if your pain is being managed well enough," Maureen countered.

"Yeah, but I just didn't know social workers cared about pain. Glad you do, though. Anderson is not an idiot. It's still there, but not all the time. It's worse now that it's infected but they went up on the fentanyl after it got infected, and that's helping."

"Good. Have you heard of our disability support group?"

"Yes. I've been to one or two meetings but I'm not really a touchy feely kind of guy. Plus with this thing being so infected it's not a good idea for me to be spreading infection to everyone else," House replied.

_Hmm. This is kind of a loaded answer,_ Maureen thought. There were plenty of indications of poor body image in that answer. Saying "This thing" instead of "my leg" is one strong indicator of poor body image. So was the statement that he was spreading infection to everyone else. With a dressing on his leg, the possibility of spreading infection to most other people was almost nil unless they actually touched the drainage with bare skin.

As Maureen processed his answer internally, House looked intently at her trying to figure her out. Actually, he was trying to figure out her motives for being there. Sure, she told him she visited because she visited ALL rehab patients. But everyone lies, and everyone has a reason for lying, so House had learned long ago that he couldn't believe things people said. Actions counted more than words. So what was behind HER words?

Maureen was doing the same thing – trying to figure House out. She knew that he was studying her. She studied him too. "Dr. House, if I asked you what your quality of life was right now, would you answer me? I want to know what you think your quality of life is, not what you think I want to hear. If it sucks, tell me why it sucks. If it's good or great, tell me why it's good or great. I suspect it may help if you rate it on a one to ten scale with one being the worst and ten being the best. You might think this is a crazy question for one stranger to ask another, but I think you are probably a very analytical person and I think you're trying to analyze everything I say. That's not a bad quality. To be honest with you, I do the same thing."

"Three."

"Ok, on a scale of one to ten, it's a three. I appreciate your honesty."

Before Maureen could continue, House went on. "I'm still alive, which is a one. I still have all my extremities, improves things to a two. I top out at a three because I still have one friend left. That's as high as I can go."

Maureen was struck by the fact that House's eyes expressed his emotions clear as day, but his voice and body language were just as matter-of-fact and free of emotions as possible. Everything he said was straightforward and to the point. She didn't have to look at him long before she remembered the truism that the eyes are the window to the soul. The man clearly had emotions bubbling to the surface but he was fighting like mad to tamp them down, keep them under control.

"What would it take to make it a four?" Maureen asked.

"My girl to come back."

"Were you married? Did she leave before or after your surgery?" Maureen asked.

"No. And after. Who wants to live with this," House motioned to the entire lower half of his body.

"You mentioned that you had a friend. Does your friend visit you here?"

"I can't get him out of my hair. We work together at PPTH. He's head of oncology there and his office is next to mine. I mean I literally can't get him out of my hair. Yesterday he was combing my hair."

"What's his name?"

"James Wilson. He calls me House, and I call him Wilson."

"Would it be Ok with you if the three of us meet together next time he's here?"

"If you come back again, you probably won't be able to avoid him. The only reason he's not here now is he still has things to wrap up with his practice at PPTH and I think he's trying to help out with my department too, while I'm gone. My boss has meddled so much that I think she has things in my department so messed up I doubt even Wilson will be able to straighten them out."

Maureen threw one of his statements right back at him. "Does it bother you to think that your boss has meddled in your department to the point of messing things up, as you said? It must be very difficult to be head of a department and then have to give it all up suddenly due to illness, even if the need to 'give it up' is just temporary."

"Oh fuck, no…sorry for the French… but no, oddly enough, her meddling doesn't bother me. She never DOESN'T meddle. If she had just started meddling recently, then yes, it would bother me. But she always meddles. She doesn't know how to manage effectively. God knows how many other people she had to sleep with to become an administrator. Oops, I probably shouldn't have said that," House added as an afterthought. "But hell, I can't take it back now. Because she doesn't know how to manage effectively, she micromanages and gets involved in things she doesn't have to get involved in. So no, it doesn't bother me, because I'm used to it and so is Wilson. Honestly, I put up with it because she has the hottest body in town. I get to deal with the most interesting, trickiest diagnostics cases from all over the northeast, and I get the added side benefit of seeing that hot body every day. It's just too bad her management skills don't match her body. My employees will do the best they can in my absence. I'm sure she has them assigned to other departments, and we won't get any more diagnostic referrals until I come back."

"It's good to hear you say 'until I come back'. That's a very good thing to hear. Your candor is also quite refreshing. Dr. House, would you mind if I came back on a regular basis? I'd like to meet your friend, and would it be Ok if I came back tomorrow afternoon after lunch?" Maureen asked.

"Sounds Ok to me," House said with grudging respect.

"Good deal. I only have one so-called 'requirement' of you. Actually, it's really only just a request, and you can honor my request or not. It's up to you. I simply want you to give the disability support group more of a try. If you don't want to go to the meetings, I understand. They do have an outreach program. They'll send someone to your room to meet privately with you if that's something you're interested in. You have to express the interest, though. Would you be willing to give that a try?"

"Yeah," came the answer, quietly. "I'll try it."

Maureen made the arrangements with the disability support group to send a member to his room for some one-on-one support. In the meantime, Ruth arrived for his rescheduled morning PT session. Maureen overheard the interaction.

"Dr. House, good morning! I wanted to explain why we would prefer to do your PT in your room for now. You are not at risk of 'infecting everyone'. You are more at risk of making your own infection worse because your wound is open. That's all. We're not worried about spreading infection from you to anyone else because we disinfect everything everyone uses after they're done using it. We're just worried about making your existing infection worse. I didn't want you to possibly misunderstand the intention here."

"Thanks, but you don't get it," House replied.

"What don't I get?" Ruth said, honestly concerned. "Mind if I sit down on the bed with you? Tell me."

"Well, let's see. How long do you have? The sight of this thing is sickening. The smell is sickening. I can't wear pants because of it. I look like a starvation victim. You name it. The sight of me in the PT room would drive everyone else away. You're the first person who even thought about sitting on the same bed with me."

"I don't think either the sight or the smell are sickening and you're not driving me or John away. Did you notice, in the dining room, that all those people came in just to hear you? Nobody else knew or cared what was wrong with you. Believe it or not, when you come down to the PT room, you're not the center of attention. Nobody else besides me even knows you're there. They're all focused on their own rehab. But I do understand and if you still feel like this after your infection has cleared up, we'll work with that. Sound like a plan?" Ruth asked.

"I guess," House replied.

"Ok. You're progressing nicely with your therapy. I can tell you're working on things when we're not here. That's good. We're going to stand today."

House just looked at her suspiciously and said nothing.

"I'm serious. You're doing well. You're ready. It's not a question. It's a statement. We'll use a gait belt for support and yeah, you're going to have to use a granny walker for support too. Get used to it," Ruth smiled. "At least you'll be looking at us eye to eye instead of eye to stomach. We can always dude up the granny walker to make it look cool."

"It isn't possible to dude up a granny walker enough to make it look cool. The change of view will be nice, though. I'm just not sure I can balance well enough to stand. I can't bear any weight on my right leg."

"Nobody's expecting you to. You're going to stand on your left leg, using the granny walker to maintain balance if you need it. Plus I'll have the gait belt around your waist for added support. You're going to stand for a few seconds, sit down, and stand up again for a little longer. When you stand the second time, we'll pivot into the wheel chair and back into the bed again. Instead of sliding into the wheel chair, it's time to stand and pivot on your left leg. Understand?" Ruth asked politely.

"Let's get the show on the road," House said with a resigned tone of voice.

"Hold on a sec. This isn't going to work if you don't drive the process. If you're just working your therapy because John and I are telling you to, then it won't work. I hear the resignation in your voice. You need to get back with the disability support group."

"Let's just do this, Ok?" House said. "Save the lecture."

"I'm not lecturing you. I'm giving you the facts. You're all about the cold hard facts from what I hear. I'm the same way. Let's go ahead and stand. Sit up on the side of the bed, with your feet on the floor. I'll fasten the gait belt around your waist firmly enough to let me give you some support but not too tight. Here's the walker. When you stand, grab the side rail of the bed for support if you need it. Once you're on your feet, use the walker for maintaining your balance. Bear in mind, the first time you stand, you'll probably feel light headed. This is normal, and it's why we take it slow and we don't want you on your feet more than a few seconds the first time. Sit back down after a few seconds, and your blood pressure will come back up and you can stand again."

House maneuvered his legs over the side of the bed and started sweating profusely. "I can't do this," he said softly. "I'll fall. I'm a lot taller than you are. You can't hold me up."

"No you won't fall. I won't let you. I think you must find trusting people to be difficult. Please trust me. I won't let you fall. I won't be holding you up. You'll hold yourself up. I'm here to help but you're right, obviously I can't bear your weight for you. You can do this. Here's the gait belt. If it's not too tight, lean forward a little, hold on to the left bedside rail, and push up to a standing position. I'm here, on your right side. Once you're standing, use your right hand to hold on to the walker then let go of the bed rail and hold on to the walker with your left hand too. One, two, three….. go."

The sweat poured off of his face. His nervousness was palpable. He was shaking all over but within a few minutes, he was standing! It didn't last long, because his face paled the minute he got to his feet. He plopped back down on the bed pretty much immediately. On one hand, it was embarrassing to be this weak and need this much help just to stand for a second or two. On the other hand, he did it!

"Did you feel light headed?" Ruth asked.

"Yeah, but it's gone now. That actually felt pretty damn good."

The exercise was repeated once more. House swore that he would never again take the act of merely standing up for granted. Never had such a simple act taken so much effort from him, and it had been a very long time since he felt this good.


	27. House meets Support Group

It was late afternoon of the day he first stood up. Granted, it wasn't for very long and he would have fallen over if it weren't for Ruth and the gait belt and the walker and the wheel chair, but still, it was an achievement. He was tired of being at eye level with butts and bellies all day.

He tried to rationalize his way out of it, but before the end of the day he reached the conclusion that Maureen was right. He needed to give the disability support group more of a try. House knew they had an evening meeting. After his afternoon PT session, which left him exhausted but in a satisfying way, House wheeled over to the room where the evening meeting was to be held.

Maureen was setting up for the meeting. "I'm so glad you decided to drop by!" she exclaimed. "I'm just a facilitator. I set up the room, put out pamphlets, make coffee and pretty much just remain available during the meeting if anyone has any questions for me. The patients run the meeting. I usually don't have to say much of anything."

House remained quiet, unsure of what to expect. Every inch of his body was covered up. He still had the IVs in so he couldn't wear a regular shirt, but on top of the hospital gown he had another hospital gown on, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, a blanket covering his legs and a pillow on his lap anchoring everything down so the blankets wouldn't slip off. Covered by the blankets, he also had an absorbent pad under his right leg dressing to catch any drainage that might leak through. He had put on several applications of women's deodorant under his armpits in the hope that the flowery scent would cover up the smell of drainage from his leg. He reasoned that he'd rather smell like a girl than like a cesspool of infection. Showers were out of the question because of his IVs and the open draining wound on his leg, and sponge baths just aren't one hundred percent reliable at eliminating unpleasant odors.

House looked at Maureen to gauge whether she could smell anything or not. The first sign of a wrinkle from Maureen's nose and House would make a beeline out of there and never come back.

Seeing as how Maureen didn't seem to react or notice anything out of the ordinary, House started to let his guard down a little and rolled over to get a cup of coffee. He still wasn't about to talk or anything, but maybe this might work out ok.

Other patients began to filter in slowly. Their disabilities varied from minor ones that would, no doubt, be temporary, to much more serious ones (more serious than House's). At least one man was blind. The blind man didn't seem to be bothered too much by being guided into the room by a nurse. Some of the patients had very disfiguring injuries. One woman came as an outpatient, having been burned severely. House discovered later on that she was the leader of the group.

When all were assembled and suitably full of refreshments, the meeting started. The woman with the burns started by introducing herself. She told her story. "Hi, for all of you who are new or relatively new, my name is Laura. We'd like to welcome all newcomers! This support group is managed by patients. Meetings are run by patients. Maureen the social worker is usually the only staff member in the room. For those of you who are new, here's how the meetings typically run. I start off with my introduction, and then everyone in attendance is invited to introduce themselves. Sharing any information with the group is voluntary. Some people are more ready to share information than others. If you're new and you don't feel ready to talk, we don't want to pressure you into doing anything you're not ready to do. We want you to feel welcome and we want you to keep coming back. So if all you want to do the first few times is just sit back and listen, that's fine. For all of you quiet ones out there, we do encourage you to talk eventually, when you're ready.

Let me tell you about myself. I was burned in a house fire last year. During my rehabilitation, they had a support group for burn patients and they had a separate support group for people with other disabilities. We found it was much more helpful for everyone involved to combine both support groups. I've never missed a meeting. I come every week. When I started in the group, it was weeks before I wanted to really say anything. I was so embarrassed. At the time, every exposed inch of skin was covered with either a dressing or that gross white ointment. I didn't want anyone to look at me. But eventually I found that I was able to let down my guard in here, and I found that _in here_ was really the first place I began to feel normal again. It took time, but eventually I realized that this was a sanctuary where I didn't have to worry about what other people thought when they saw me. At first, I didn't want to come to the meetings. My family made me come. But it wasn't long before I began to feel like this support group was the only thing holding me together. Now, of course, I have my life back again, and this support group is the reason why I have my life back again. I look forward to the meetings."

"So let's meet everyone!"

Around the room they went. Several patients chose not to say anything. Most said at least a few words, introducing themselves and not saying much more than that. A few, the blind man included, didn't seem to have any inhibitions about sharing information. House sat back quietly and said nothing, but intently studied everyone. As each person spoke, or chose not to speak as the case may be, House ran a mini-differential on each one in his mind.

_Paranoid. Crazy. Shy. Stupid. Depressed. Paraplegic. Quadriplegic. Blind. Deaf. Amputee. Burned._

Trying to analyze everyone else took his mind off of thinking about himself temporarily. But it was only temporary. As soon as the introductions were over with and he stopped trying to analyze everyone, his little seed of self-consciousness began to grow again.

Laura relinquished the podium and took a seat next to House. House immediately and very subtly shied away from her. Instead of turning to her to introduce himself or make friendly conversation, House did what he was most comfortable doing. He stared at the empty podium, as if expecting someone else to come up and lecture to everyone. When no one took the podium, House looked around to see what was going to happen next. His fears came true. The group broke up into smaller groups and immediately the noise level in the room went up a few notches as other people began to talk within their small groups. Most people feel more comfortable talking in a small group situation. House immediately threw up more invisible barriers and a cloud of fear crossed his face when he saw he was in Laura's small group. Tim was there too. House wanted to just kind of blend in with the crowd. That's hard to do in a small group situation. He wasn't afraid of public speaking. After all, he'd been the featured speaker at many large medical conventions over the years. This was different, though. Here, he immediately felt threatened when the room broke up into small groups, because the chances someone would pressure him into talking when he wasn't ready to talk rose exponentially the smaller the groups got. He turned to leave the room. Laura followed him. She motioned for everyone else in her small group to continue without her.

As House made his way back to his room, Laura followed him.

"I didn't ask you to follow me."

"No, you didn't. You look like you need a friend," Laura said.

"I don't."

"Why did you leave so early?" Laura asked.

House looked at her like she was a complete moron. "Oh, you really want an answer? Sitting with a bunch of pathetic saps is not helpful." As he said that, Laura noticed that he was holding on to the blanket and the pillow on his lap like they were a lifeline; like if he let go of them, they'd both fall off immediately and expose his legs. Laura had had a lot of experience analyzing patients' body language. She knew what it was like to be ashamed of one's appearance. She didn't know what was wrong with him, but she had a pretty good idea that the blanket was covering something he was ashamed of. She knew that words were unimportant, because body language told all. That's why, in her introductory speech, she always stressed the point that people didn't have to talk if they didn't want to. Their body language often told more than words ever could.

Laura patiently ignored (overlooked, actually) the blatantly sarcastic answer. House realized his sarcastic attempt to drive her away wasn't going to work. Of all the responses House was expecting, he didn't expect the one she gave him. He expected her to get defensive, to say that she wasn't a sap, to say meaningless platitudes or to beg him to come back. Instead, she turned the table on him.

"I don't even know you and I still don't think _you're_ a pathetic sap. And you're just like everyone else. So if you really think they're all pathetic saps, I guess you're including yourself in that group."

"Hmm." House replied.

"I'd like to work with you to help you formulate another opinion."

House remained silent, but looked at her nonetheless. Her approach was intriguing, and he was already trying to come up with other ways to thwart her approach.

"What happened to you?" Laura asked him quietly and sincerely.

In an obvious attempt to gross her out, he said, "I have an open, draining, pus-filled, stinking wound on my right thigh. Wonder why I smell like flowers now? It's better than smelling like a sewer." He sat back and studied her reaction.

"If you're trying to gross me out, you're going to have to do a much better job than that." She showed him a picture of herself from a year ago when she was still completely covered in bandages, tubes, drains of all kinds, IVs and had an endotracheal tube in her mouth going to her lungs and connected to a ventilator to help her breathe. "That was me a year ago. I had no skin under all those bandages."

"How did you get burned? What caused the house fire?" House asked.

"I'll answer that, but it's interesting that that's the first question you asked of me. For most people, the first things they want to know are how bad did it hurt or how many surgeries did you have. I think it's interesting that your first question is what caused the fire. I had a restraining order against my ex-husband because of domestic abuse. My ex was alcoholic. One day he came over when he thought I wasn't home. He didn't intend to burn me. He intended to just burn my house down. I had shrubbery completely surrounding my home. I didn't realize he was out in front of my home until he had managed to saturate all of the shrubbery with gasoline. By the time I realized he was in front of my home, I looked out the window and saw him light the shrubs on fire. I got out, but in order to do so, I had to run through a wall of fire. The firefighters were there within minutes but if I'd stayed inside any longer than I did, I'd have died from smoke inhalation. I had to make a run for it. My clothes, my hair, everything caught on fire. My ex saw me and ran from the scene. My neighbor called the fire department and my neighbor is the reason I'm still alive. We had no children but we did have two dogs, both of whom died from smoke inhalation."

"Wow." _Ok, that's not the most intelligent response, but what else is there to say?_ House thought.

"Ok, so you got to ask a question. Now it's my turn again. Let's try this one more time. What happened to you? And I don't want to hear about gross pus. Just tell me about you," Laura said.

House took a deep breath and told his story in an uncharacteristically soft, submissive voice.

"I'll say it back to you. Wow. I know what it's like when you think everyone's looking at you. I can say 'if they're staring at you, ignore them – they're all idiots' all I want, but when I was first recovering from this, all my family and friends said the same thing. They said 'they're not looking at you,' or 'who gives a damn if they're looking at you – they're idiots - ignore them.' It really didn't matter if, in reality, people were looking at me or not. In my mind, I thought everyone was staring at me, and nobody could convince me that I wasn't just the center of everyone's attention."

It was nice that Laura wasn't lecturing him or giving him unwanted advice. All she was doing was sharing her experience. He could deal with this woman.

"I have a feeling that you're not comfortable talking with a large group of people," Laura said.

"It's not really that. I was a frequent guest speaker at large medical conventions. I'm very much at home in front of large crowds. But this is different. I was being paid to be the center of everyone's attention then. I don't want to be the center of attention when the only reason for that attention is disgust. And this is disgusting," House said, motioning not only to his leg but to everything else in the room.

All kinds of responses ran through Laura's mind. _It's not as disgusting as you think it is. You're making a mountain out of a molehill. It's not that bad._ She'd heard them all a million times before, from other people, aimed at her. She thought back to the early days during her own rehab when she wanted to strangle everyone who'd ever said those things to her. They're meaningless platitudes. Her burns _were_ disgusting. They _did_ smell. But it was more than just that. The whole experience of being sick was disgusting. It was disgusting having to rely on strangers to clean up all of your bodily functions. It was disgusting to have to rely on a machine and a tube to breathe for you. She knew _exactly_ what he meant when he used the word "disgusting". She knew he wasn't just referring to his leg. When she was in his shoes, she wanted her feelings acknowledged. She wanted her feelings validated. When she said her burns were disgusting, the last thing in the world she wanted was for someone to say they weren't. Validating someone's emotions is a lot better than making them feel like their emotions are meaningless.

"Yeah, I know how you feel. I'll bet so does everyone else in the group. It's your choice whether or not to come back to the group. I'm not going to try to tell you how you should feel, because when I was in your shoes, I couldn't stand it when other people tried to tell me that I shouldn't be feeling the way I was. When I was in rehab, I hated everyone. I had no problem speaking to people either. I would tell them all to fuck off and leave me alone. I had friends before I got burned. I was this really popular social butterfly. Every time my friends would come to visit me in the hospital, I'd hear the same damn thing over and over again. 'You look great.' I knew I didn't look 'great'. I could only stand those platitudes for so long before I eventually started telling them to fuck off. I knew they cared and I knew they felt like they had to say something, but they just didn't know what to say. Eventually they all stopped visiting, they stopped calling, they stopped writing, and the only ones who stuck with me were my sisters and the neighbor who saved my life."

She looked intently at House. She had all the time in the world, and didn't mind waiting patiently for any response he might have.

She didn't have long to wait.

"If you can do it, so can I."

"Alright! That's what I like to hear. I'm going to _suggest_ something that might help you get off to a good start with the group. I'm going to _suggest_, and bear in mind this is just a suggestion, that you write a letter. The letter can be to yourself or to anyone else you want. Nobody else will see it unless you want them to. The assignment, if you will, is to write a letter telling you or anyone else how you feel specifically about this injury and its aftermath. You don't have to do this. It's just a helpful tool, that's all. It helped me a lot. I ended up writing a lot more than just a letter, but my suggestion to you, if you're going to do this at all, is that you just start off with a letter."

House looked her square in the eye, arched his eyebrows and said with a bit of a smirk, "I think I can manage that."


	28. The Letter

**A/N – as time goes on with the show, I'm becoming more and more of a confirmed Hilson shipper. This chapter paints Cuddy in a not-so-friendly light because it reflects how I feel that the writers have ruined her character. I don't actually dislike the character. I dislike how her character has been written for the past two seasons on the show. If you're a Huddy shipper like I used to be, consider yourself forewarned. The chapter is short because it's really all about the letter House is writing. If you pick up any double entendre in the letter, it was intentional and I tried to keep it subtle!**

_Ok, how am I going to start this off? Let's see…_"To whom it may concern," _no, that's not personal enough. I guess she wants personal stuff. _"To myself," _no, that sounds idiotic. Let me think about this._

It was after ten o'clock that evening and Wilson had long since fallen asleep in the recliner at House's bedside. Wilson, good old Wilson, came back after a long day wrapping things up with his existing patients. Wilson was in the process of referring patients to other oncologists so he could put his practice on hold as long as necessary. He wasn't quitting. He was just making time for House. When the time came that they could both go back to work, Wilson would look into joining another oncology group practice. Up until now, Wilson had been in private, solo practice. He'd had plenty of invitations to join group practices so he had no doubt when the time came that he could go back to work, he'd have no trouble joining a good group practice. Cuddy had told him time and time again, recently, that while she "appreciated" the support he showed for House, he needed to devote a little more time to PPTH if he was going to remain head of oncology and stay on the board there. He was so close to telling her to fuck off that it was becoming a chore going to work at all, knowing that he'd have to work extra hard to keep his mouth shut around her. Every time he was around her, she put on this show of asking how House was, but it was so transparent it was laughable. She might care how House was, but the real reason for asking the question was not difficult to read. Wilson suspected the real motive for asking how House was, was to find out when he was returning to work. She was just too chicken to come out and ask House directly. Her visits with House were few and far between and when she did come to see him, it was always with Wilson in the room and the conversation couldn't have been any more banal. She seemed to prefer to go behind House's back and ask Wilson "how is House doing?"

Wilson had not yet told House any of this.

So here was Wilson, sound asleep and snoring at House's bedside. House, in the meantime, was wide awake. He really wanted to get working on that letter. He was already composing it in his mind.

"_To whoever wants to read this shit…" _Yeah, that's it!

"_To whoever wants to read this BS. I'm writing this from my hospital bed, in a dark room, at 10:30 at night. My best friend, actually more than that but I haven't told him yet, is snoring and drooling all over his best tie in a recliner at my bedside. He looks adorable, but if I told him that, he'd tell me I was FOS. Since we're not in mixed company, I guess I can write it out – full of shit. _I gotta write this down before I forget any of it.

House quietly reached over to his nightstand to grab the pen and paper sitting there. Wilson stirred a little, but thankfully went right back to sleep. House wondered if he could write the whole letter out without waking Wilson because, right now, the last thing he wanted was for Wilson to read it. But he had to write it down before he forgot what he wanted to say.

With a little ambient lighting from the hallway, House took pen and paper in hand and began to do his homework.

"_To whoever wants to read this BS, _

_I'm writing this from my hospital bed, in a dark room, at 10:30 at night. My best friend, actually my only friend, is snoring and drooling all over his best tie in a recliner at my bedside. He looks adorable, but if I told him that, he'd tell me I was full of shit. _

_I feel like an uninvited guest who crashed a nightmarishly bad party. Now that I'm here I can't leave the party, which is weird because the party was never good to begin with. I'd love to leave, but the wheel chair won't fit through the door. What's even weirder is I have no idea how I got in the house. I just can't get out of it because the door isn't wide enough for my wheel chair to fit through. Even the music was bad, and it stopped playing a long time ago. The other party-goers stopped even remotely trying to have any fun a long time ago. They're all in wheel chairs like me, on stretchers, on crutches, or hobbling around on canes, and they all look like pathetic losers. They can't go home any more than I can. It's like being in a fun house at a carnival and we're all staring in the crazy mirrors. We look like freaks. We're all stuck together in this nightmare. I'm an ugly wallflower. I'm at the party, not having any fun, wishing I could go home but I can't. I'm hiding in a closet at the party because I can't go home and I don't like telling anyone that I hate how I look and I hate how I feel. I'm kinda stoned on fentanyl most of the time, and everyone else seems stoned on something too. I hate that I have to have a continuous dose of narcotics to even begin to try to function normally. So basically I'm hiding in the closet at a very bad party, can't go home, want to wake up from this thing bordering on a nightmare but can't. I'm waiting for some hot and sexy thing to open the closet door, saw open a big hole in the house and get me the hell out of here. _

_That's all for now,_

_Greg House MD"_


	29. The long awaited moment

**A/N – Huddies will not like this chapter. In fact, Huddies probably won't like the rest of this story. Consider yourself warned. Remember I'm a reformed Huddy, now completely converted to Hilsonism. **

With the completed letter in hand, House had a conundrum. Where to hide it?

He didn't have an envelope and he wasn't sure he wanted Wilson to see it. Some things need to be said in person first before they're read on paper, especially when said person is the only other person in your life. The whole point of writing the letter was for House to express his feelings in an unthreatening way. Letting Wilson see it now would defeat the purpose. House _wanted _to tell Wilson how he felt about a lot of things, but 11 pm at night after they'd both had a very long day didn't seem the ideal time to talk about sappy things like that.

House thought of all the places Wilson might accidentally find it, and opted to tuck the letter under his hospital gown. Of all places, that would be the most secure place to put it until he could find an envelope.

But the letter really nagged at him. Wilson really needed to know how House felt, but _guys just don't talk about stuff like that, do they_? House thought. _I'm such a sissy._

Eventually, sleep dragged him under, but one never truly sleeps uninterrupted in a hospital room. People wake you up for all kinds of God-forsaken things. Wilson woke him up unintentionally when he shifted in the chair and accidentally knocked a pitcher of water over onto House's bed. Wilson jumped up to try to catch the pitcher before it doused his friend, but wasn't quick enough. House startled awake and made a mad grab for the letter tucked under his gown, to make sure it didn't fall out or get wet. _Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to put it there,_ he thought.

"Shit", he mumbled. "What the hell?"

"Sorry about that," whispered Wilson. "I'll get some dry stuff for you."

While Wilson's back was turned getting a dry gown and dry sheets, House shoved the letter in the drawer in his nightstand and closed the drawer as quietly as he could in the hope that Wilson wouldn't hear and turn back around again.

Wilson returned with a dry gown and dry sheets. House, in the meantime, decided to show off his newly developed ability to transfer independently into Wilson's recliner by standing on his left leg. Unfortunately, there was no walker to grab onto for support. He managed to stand rather clumsily and pivot anyway, using the bed rail to hold on to. He did it so fast that when his butt hit the recliner seat, he hit the vinyl so hard that it sounded like he sat on a fart cushion. Wilson shouted "Slow down! You wanna wind up on the floor, dummy?"

"No, I want to get into dry things and get back to sleep as quickly as humanly possible. Can't do that lying in a wet bed. Thanks for the advice, nimrod," House said with a smirk.

Wilson changed the sheets and helped House out of the wet gown. "Wow! Your dressing looks a lot better! When did they change this last?" Wilson asked.

"I have no idea. We ready to go back to bed now?" House replied.

"Yeah. What's with the 'we' stuff? I'm not climbing in there with you."

"No, but you just said you don't want me to fall. I'm guessing that means you're going to help me whether I need it or not, right?" House smiled.

"It's your ass that'll hit the floor, not mine!" Wilson laughed. "Promise, I won't help you if you don't need it. Just please don't give me a heart attack. Take it slow!"

"I may need help to scoot my butt up to the edge of the seat. Don't pull on me. Just be in front of me if I need help. After I get in the right position I can stand by myself. If you try to grab me you'll throw my balance off."

With that, House awkwardly scooted forward enough to get his rear up to the front edge of the seat, then stood up and pivoted on his left leg and sat down on the side of the bed. "I won't break any speed limits like this, but your back is bad and you shouldn't have to haul on me. I can't do a whole lot by myself yet but this I can do."

When he tried to maneuver his legs back into the bed, though, it was a different story. He doubled up and sobbed, "The thing's cramping! Shit, oh God, it's my left leg… oh God….." as his face paled. His entire left leg was stiff as a board. Even his foot cramped. Wilson tried to massage his leg but he wasn't sure where to start. The entire leg was cramping. Prolonged immobility causes blood to pool in places where it shouldn't. It impairs venous return from the legs. Going from almost complete immobility to sudden movement when the patient is not very mobile, such as House did when he hopped into the chair so fast, is definitely not a good idea. That's why patients are advised to move slowly. House screamed, "Don't touch it!" as he rolled around and around, trying fruitlessly to get some relief. Some cramps you just can't massage out because that makes them hurt worse. They have to let up on their own. "Help me sit up with my feet on the ground!" House cried. Wilson offered a hand and helped House to sit up. "Don't touch my left leg!" House cried again, when Wilson made a move to help him maneuver his legs over. "Let me do it. Just help me with my right leg." With Wilson at House's right leg, House slowly maneuvered the cramping left leg over the side of the bed. Between the two of them, he managed to sit upright on the side of the bed with his legs lowered. Gradually, the visible rippling of cramping muscles in his left leg stopped, and House let out a huge sigh of relief. Then the sniffling started. House turned his head so Wilson wouldn't see that he was crying.

Wilson said nothing and gave him a few moments to compose himself.

"Wilson, I'm such a fucking freak."

"No you're not."

"Don't tell me how you think I should feel."

"Well what else am I supposed to say?"

"I don't know. Don't say anything. I'm telling you I feel like a freak, and that isn't easy. Maybe it was a mistake."

"You can't say something like that and then not expect me to react. I don't think you're a freak, and I should be able to say how I feel," Wilson said.

"Not when it isn't helpful."

"House, for God's sake, give me a break!" Wilson snapped. "I'm not perfect! God knows, I'm trying. I don't have a magic wand. Your usual way of talking about your feelings is to call people idiots and act like they're stupid. I've never heard you actually tell someone honestly how you feel. I don't know how to react when you act like a normal person."

Both men sat quietly for a few minutes; Wilson dwelling on House's apparently newfound ability to show and relate normal emotions, and House just breathing in sighs of relief. House was afraid to move for fear that the cramping would come back again. For now, he was fine sitting where he was.

Uncomfortable with the prolonged silence, House broke it. "Something you should know. Actually, I wasn't sure how to tell you, so I wrote it down. I didn't even write down everything I wanted to say but this is a start. It was an assignment from the woman who leads the support group. She talked with me for awhile. There's a letter in the top drawer of my nightstand for you. I appreciate you. Read it here."

"Now?" Wilson asked. "It's almost midnight. Can't we go back to sleep?"

"I want you to read it while you're with me and I'm awake. I don't want you to misunderstand."

Wilson found the letter and read it silently. House studied him for his reaction.

"I was not snoring!" Wilson laughed.

"Keep reading," House said seriously.

Wilson's lips moved as he slowly read through the entire letter. After finishing it, he read it again with a frown of concern.

"We can work through this," he said with sincerity, warm brown eyes melting as he looked at House. "You have every right to say how you feel. I'm just not used to normal emotions coming from you."

"Normal?" House said. "Seriously?"

"Yeah, normal. I mean, people react to situations differently, but when a cancer kid's hair falls out, yeah, they think they're freaks too. Of course you feel like a freak. It's called a normal reaction.

"Yeah, well, what do I do to not feel like one?"

"I think you know the answer to that. I think that group is the answer."

"Hmm…"

Wilson let things go for a few more minutes. Both men obviously had things on their minds, but for House, sharing his feelings was such new and unfamiliar territory that he had difficulty initiating conversations. He would break the silence when the silence got too uncomfortable, though.

"Wilson. Something's simmering in that cabeza of yours."

"Yeah. I was thinking about after you're discharged."

"Aand?"

"I mean, I was thinking about what you're going to do after you are discharged."

"Shouldn't that be up to me?" House asked, not quite sure where the conversation was going.

"I was thinking about your living arrangements. Actually, technically, _OUR_ living arrangements." Wilson waited while that sentence sank in with House.

"Our? What do you mean, our?"

"You're going to need help after you get out."

"I know some hookers who'll do my chores and a few more things after that. I have the money," House smirked.

"That's not what I'm talking about."

"For God's sake, spit it out!" House said incredulously.

"You – actually, We – need other living arrangements."

"What's with the We thing?" House said.

"You heard me. We need new living arrangements. My place is not accessible, and contrary to what I'm sure you're going to say, I don't think you want to continue living alone. WE need a place; one that's big enough for both of us to be comfortable in."

"What do you mean by 'not accessible'?" House said with a smart-ass grin, knowing full well what Wilson meant. He just wanted to hear it from Wilson.

"Stop being an ass," Wilson said. "My doorways aren't wide enough for a wheelchair, for one thing. Not that anyone expects you to stay in one for long but we need to be ready in case you need one at home for a little while. And that isn't even taking into account the bigger problem."

"Which is?" House said, smiling.

"Stop smirking, jackass. My place has too many steps and I wouldn't have room for you to sleep anywhere."

"Aand?"

"And stop being such a jerk. There isn't enough room in my place for both of us to be comfortable."

"Why would we want that?" House asked with a silly look on his face.

"Oh shut up! Ok, you forced it out of me. I want to move in. With you," Wilson said with a fake look of irritation.

House rolled his eyes, batted his eyelashes, threw his hands up in the air and generally put on an act worthy of an Oscar. "But honey, what will the kids say?" he said in a fake southern accent, talking about his fellows.

"Who gives a shit? Our lives are our lives. We need to look out for each other. The kids probably figured it out a long time ago. I say we go public. It's time. I'll put my place up for sale and we'll work out the financial arrangements later. I'll pay you rent, go halvsies on the groceries and utilities, whatever. We can work it out later. Let's do it."

"My my, I like your assertive side!" House laughed.

"Wow – I was expecting more of a reaction from you – maybe something along the lines of threatening to kill me. You're Ok with this?" Wilson asked.

"Oh hell, I've been waiting for that for a long time."


	30. Discharge planning

Both men fell into a relaxed sleep. House had recovered from the left leg cramp and the pleasant shock of Wilson's announced plan, and Wilson relaxed considerably when he realized that his announcement wasn't going to result in House choking him to death.

Sure enough, just as House settled into an amazing dream, someone in a white lab coat woke him up about two seconds before the happy ending.

"Shit!" he groused quietly. "Don't wake him up!" House said as he motioned over to Wilson's slumbering form. "What do you want?" House hissed.

"I need to get some blood," said the hapless lab technician.

"Not at four am you don't. Now go."

"They ordered a Chem panel, a CBC, a protime and a partial thromboplastin time."

"I don't care if God Himself ordered it. I need to sleep. Come back later," House whispered fiercely. "And don't wake him up!"

The poor lab technician tiptoed as quickly as he could out of the room. His tone of voice changed abruptly after he left the room. House could hear him muttering as the technician documented something on the computer outside House's room. "Asshole," "Jerk," and a few other choice phrases could be heard from the hallway. But House accomplished his goal. The guy left and at least Wilson was still asleep.

_It's four am in the freakin' morning. How can they do something like that to sick people and actually expect sick people to cooperate? He's lucky I didn't call him the names he called me when he thought I couldn't hear him. _House swore he was going to put a sign on his door threatening bodily injury to the next person who woke him up at four am to draw blood.

Flush with the satisfaction that he still had some control over what was happening to him, he fell asleep for what he was sure would only be about another hour or so.

As it turned out, sleep didn't even last an hour. Another lab technician knocked on his closed door, asking permission to come in and draw the blood sample. The knock woke Wilson up.

"Oh, for God's sake, leave me the hell alone! Get this straight. Print this out in big block letters and paste it all over your department down there in the lab. I don't care. Nobody is to draw any blood from me at 4 am or 5 am. If you can't come up at a decent hour in the morning and do it then, don't do it at all. I'm not trying to be difficult. I'm trying to sleep, for God's sake!" House stated firmly, meeting the lab technician's stare.

The night shift charge nurse came in to see what all the commotion was about. "He kicked my other tech out so I came up to see if I could get his blood."

"Well, it's not the end of the world. I know you have a schedule to keep and you have to get the samples to the lab by a certain time so the results are available when the doctors come for morning rounds. But it's not the end of the world. He didn't say you couldn't draw it. He just doesn't want it drawn this early. I don't see a problem with that. Can I draw it myself before I leave at 7? Breakfast trays come about 6:30 am; maybe I can draw it when his breakfast tray arrives," she said to the lab tech, all the while looking at House for approval. House smiled at her with relief.

The lab tech looked at both of them as if they were in cahoots with each other against the lab. "I guess it's alright," he said, muttering in defeat.

"Yeah, we can be flexible about this. If we need to continue this conversation, we should do it outside. We done here?" the nurse asked.

"Yeah," the lab tech muttered again.

"Hey." House called to the lab tech. "Hey. If you want respect you need to give it first."

Wilson just looked at House with a look that clearly said _I can't believe I'm hearing that from you, of all people. How many times have you been punched out by patients' families?_

"Sorry about that, Dr. House. I hope you can get back to sleep. Do you need something more for pain? Can I get you anything?" the nurse asked.

"My left leg cramped horribly a few hours ago when I got up so Wilson could change my bed. Don't ask how my stuff got wet. The cramping stopped on its own and I went back to sleep, but now that I'm awake again, both legs are really hurting pretty bad. Am I due for a new patch?" House asked, in such an unusually polite tone of voice that it earned a look of incredulity from Wilson. Wilson wasn't sure if this was some kind of act or if House was really, God forbid, actually showing a nurse respect.

She looked at his chart. "No, but according to the protocol we can give you another IV booster. I know you probably want these IVs out so let's give you an IV fentanyl booster before someone decides the IVs need to come out," she said, smiling.

The nurse left the room for a few minutes to get the medication.

Wilson said softly, "Did the real House go on a temporary leave of absence? Since when are you nice to nurses?"

"Since they started bringing the pain relief."

A few short minutes after the booster was given, blissful pain relief descended from heaven above and House was back in La-La Land dreaming about wild hot sex on flame-painted motorcycles.

Before she left, his night shift nurse gently drew his blood and within minutes House was sound asleep again. House actually got another hour of uninterrupted sleep. Wilson crept out and went over to Mickey's diner and got House some really good pancakes that would reheat well in the microwave, along with their awesome Maple-Pecan syrup and real butter. Not that fake butter crap that comes on hospital breakfast trays. The real, clog-your-arteries stuff. Pancakes, real butter, maple-pecan syrup, a couple of made-from-scratch Boston Cream doughnuts and two cups of Mickey's own coffee were waiting in the patient refrigerator for House whenever he woke up.

By 8 am, House was a little more ready to greet the day. Wilson had one more thing to take care of at PPTH today and had left a note for House to tell him about breakfast and that he'd be back later after he wrapped up something at PPTH. He didn't go into detail about what needed to be wrapped up at PPTH and all House cared about was whatever was in that fridge from Mickey's diner. House's nurse reheated his delicious breakfast and House inhaled all of it.

Dr. O'Malley came in at about 9 am as House was wiping the last of the butter and maple syrup off of his chin. "Need to take a look at your leg."

"It's still there. I don't think the infection is, though. Doesn't stink and the dressing actually manages to stay clean and dry now. Can I get my IVs out?" House replied, just as direct and to the point as O'Malley was.

O'Malley removed the dressing. House tried to avoid looking at it. "This looks good. I think the infection has cleared up but just to be on the safe side, I'm going to get blood cultures today. If they come back clean, we can stop the antibiotics and pull the IVs in a day or so."

O'Malley was closely watching House's face for signs of pain. He didn't miss the fact that House wouldn't look at the incision.

"How's the pain?" O'Malley asked.

"Anderson's protocol is working. I had to have an IV fentanyl booster this morning, though. I'll talk to Anderson about it when he comes in later today. I'm fine," House muttered, still unable to summon up the courage to look at the incision.

"We can leave the dressing off your incision. You can wear loose-fitting pants. No jeans and nothing constricting. I think loose-fitting pajama pants would be best. How's your therapy going?"

When O'Malley was in the middle of the sentence about it being Ok to wear loose-fitting pants, House looked like he could have thrown O'Malley out of the room.

"What's wrong?" O'Malley asked, genuinely confused. He thought House would be elated at having the dressing off and being able to at least wear pajama bottoms.

"Nothing. My therapy is fine."

"Why are you upset? What's bothering you?"

"Nothing," House muttered, looking past O'Malley at a spot on the wall.

"Come on. What's wrong?"

House took a deep breath and remembered the letter. He couldn't keep his feelings bottled up forever. Maybe the letter wasn't for O'Malley but one thing writing that letter taught him was that it was refreshingly therapeutic to actually say what was on his mind.

"I know you think I don't want to look at it. I don't. Unfortunately, every time I go to the bathroom, change my clothes or take a bath, I have no choice."

"House, cosmetic reconstructive surgery is possible. I can call in a plastic surgeon if you're interested."

"I don't want more surgery," House stated unequivocally. "All I want to do is go back to the way things were before I got all carved up, and that isn't possible. I wish you had amputated my leg. I'd be home by now and I wouldn't have to look at this all the time." He motioned to the indentation and the incisions in various stages of healing and scarring on his right thigh. "You can leave."

O'Malley hung around a few minutes longer. "How's the disability support group going?"

"I think I said about 8 seconds ago that you could leave."

"We need to talk about this," O'Malley said and House immediately interrupted him. "No, WE don't. I'm fine. You can go."

"Body image issues are common after disfiguring surgeries," O'Malley said.

"I know. I still don't need to talk to you about it. Do you recall that we met on the golf course? I'll never again be able to walk 18 holes. The chances that I'll ever be able to wear golf cleats or swing my clubs with a normal golf swing are pretty slim. And I do care about how I look. Nobody wants to play golf with a guy that can't keep up with them. It's hard enough for me to talk about it with people who know what I'm going through. You don't. I know you mean well but it doesn't help to talk about it when you have no idea what it's like to be in my shoes. So I'll see you tomorrow," House replied, firmly ending the conversation.

John came up for what would probably be the last, or close to the last occupational therapy session. House had met all of his immediate occupational therapy goals. The few remaining goals to be met had to do with potential residential and workplace accommodation needs. John decided they would discuss residential accommodations today, and delay the workplace assessment until House was closer to discharge.

"Good morning, Dr. House! This is probably going to be our second to last occupational therapy session."

"Whoopee."

"Yeah, I knew that'd bring shouts of joy from you. We need to talk about what your needs will be at home. I have a routine assessment form to review your current living arrangements and whether or not you will need modifications to your residence."

House swallowed hard. He didn't relish the thought of having to change anything in his beloved man-cave other than who he would share it with. But some facts just can't be altered. _Just because you wish for normalcy doesn't mean it's going to happen_. _Maybe my idea of normalcy is going to have to change._

"Ok..." House proffered.

"Do you own or rent?" John asked.

"Own."

"Is it a free-standing home or a condo?"

"I own an apartment. There are several other units in the building with me."

"What floor are you on?"

"First."

"Do you have any steps to deal with?"

"Two steps outside my front door."

"Are the doorways wide enough for a wheel chair? If you're not sure, I can ask someone to measure them for you."

"The building's front door probably is, and my own unit's front door is, but none of the interior doorways are. Even if it isn't wide enough, I can't do anything about the front doorway to my building since it's common property. Do you really think I'll be needing a wheel chair at home?" House asked, worriedly.

"No. I know the plan is to move you up to a cane before you leave. I'm just trying to help determine what we can do to help in case you do need a wheel chair at some point in time."

"Is the bathroom door wide enough for a wheel chair?"

"No."

"How is your bathroom set up? Do you have a shower in the tub, or do you have a separate tub and shower area?"

"Shower in the tub."

"Ok, we'll set you up with a shower chair and a hand held shower attachment. You may not need either of those but it'll help to have them on hand when you get home," John replied.

"Now for the toilet. Some people find difficulty in getting back up off the toilet seat. We can do a few things. One, we will outfit your bathroom with grab rails next to the toilet and in the tub. Two, we can outfit your toilet with a raised toilet seat so it's easier to get back up off the toilet. I would leave the grab bars in permanently. If you get to the point where you no longer need the raised toilet seat, that just clamps on to the toilet bowl temporarily and you can easily remove it yourself."

"Sounds like an old age home," House muttered.

"It's better than having to rely on someone else to help you in the bathroom. These aids are meant to enable you to function completely independently," John stated matter-of-factly.

"How about your kitchen setup? If you do have to use a wheel chair, even for a short time, is there enough room in your kitchen for a wheel chair?"

"It's small, but there's probably enough room. My kitchen is pretty well outfitted and I think I'll be alright there," House replied.

"Ok, last item is transportation. You probably won't need this so I'm not going to order one now but if you do, we can set you up with hand controls for your car. Let's hold off on that for now, though. I can have Maureen fill out an application for a handicapped placard. You can get a hang tag or a sticker for your license plate. I'd get a hang tag if I were you so you can use it in whatever vehicle you happen to be in."

"Sounds like you got me all hooked up. Not that I really want any of that stuff, but thanks," House reluctantly admitted.


	31. Parallel bars

**A/N – Randall Cunningham's name is mentioned here but all other facts or statements attributed to him in this story are fictional. For those of you who aren't familiar with American football, Randall Cunningham was drafted by the Philadelphia Eagles and was their all star quarterback for quite some time. **

About an hour after John was through with House's home assessment, Ruth came up for his physical therapy.

"I hear they're ready to kick you out of OT! Hey, that's great news! Means you don't need them anymore. That's wonderful. You know what that means, though. More time for PT!" she smiled.

"Yes, my mistress of torture. I'm sure you've just been waiting with baited breath for this day!" House grumbled.

"Well, actually today's a bit of a mile marker for you. I understand from Dr. O'Malley that you've been cleared to leave your room for physical therapy. I understand your infection cleared up," Ruth said. As she said that, she looked at House and noticed a distinct look of reluctance, perhaps even fear.

"If you're reluctant to do your therapy in public, I understand and I have a nice surprise for you."

"What's that?"

"I'm not telling. You have to come over to the PT room and find out for yourself. If you don't come to the PT room, you're not going to get the surprise."

"Evil witch!" House said with a smile.

"Nope, just resourceful. I'll push if you'll get your ass up out of that bed," Ruth said as she positioned the wheel chair and stood close by in case her assistance was needed. House was very unsteady when pivoting into the chair because his left leg wouldn't bear much weight. It was still quite sore from the cramping earlier. Of course he elected not to tell Ruth about the cramping, forcing her to play 20 questions when she saw how unsteady he was.

"Next time, just tell me when you have these problems. They're going to happen from time to time. But you have to tell me so I know what to expect. Don't push yourself too much at the risk of suffering some kind of setback. Take it easy on the days when you've had a bad night. Everyone understands these things happen," Ruth said when he finally told her why his left leg was hurting. "But we don't have ESP."

"Funny, I've had to develop my own kind of ESP over the years because my patients never tell me what I need to know, either," House replied.

After assuring he was suitably dressed for an excursion outside his room, she pulled out another surprise; a bright green Philadelphia Eagles' cap with #12 on it – Randall Cunningham's number. "Here, pop that on your head. You're going to need it." As House accepted the gift from Ruth, he read the note taped to the inside of the cap's bill: "Yeah, it's from me. Don't re-gift it. I'll know if you do. Love, Wilson."

Proudly wearing that cap, House felt at least somewhat normal now that his slightly unruly hair was covered up with something any guy would be proud to wear. The new cap earned him more than a few jealous looks as they rolled down the hallway towards the PT room.

Turning the corner into the PT room, patients were in various stages of their physical therapy routines and nobody even cast him a second glance. Ruth let him push the chair down to the farthest corner of the room where a large, slender, well-muscled man was sitting with his back to House. He was sitting on the same padded bench House would be using in a few minutes, with dressings wrapped around his right leg, doing leg lifts with small weights.

It was Randall Cunningham in the flesh. House's jaw dropped to the floor. Randall Cunningham, right there in Princeton General's PT room. Right on the same PT bench House would be using. "Oh my God…" was really all House could manage to utter.

"You're….you're…." House stuttered.

"Yeah, I know who I am!" Mr. Cunningham replied with a smile. "I hear we have a friend in common. She's a total bitch," he said with a friendly smile aimed at Ruth. "She'll drive you nucking futs. But I've had a lot of physical therapists in my high school and college career after all these banged up knees and stuff, and I've never met anyone near as good as she is. Ever since I got drafted by the Eagles I've never had any other physical therapist – just her. She'll drive you crazy but if you do what she says you'll do better than some of these other idiots that aren't as thorough. You go to some idiot who lets you call the shots and pretty soon you're gonna find yourself back in that damn chair. You stick with her and do what she says even when you think you wanna kill her, and she'll have you up walking outta here. Trust me. Been there, done that."

House stared him right in the eye and said, "I can't believe I'm doing therapy with Randall Cunningham. What happened to your leg?" House asked, immediately at ease with this man and uncharacteristically ready, willing and able to open up to him.

"Busted my knee pretty good. They had to repair a tendon and torn cartilage. I'm out for awhile, but I should be able to come back before the end of the season. Sucks, though."

"Yeah. Why are you here?" House asked him, genuinely curious about why #12 wasn't doing his rehab at the team's training facility.

"I just told you."

"No, you told me why you were in therapy. You didn't tell me why you're doing it at Princeton General," House retorted with a sly grin.

"Ruth said she might need a hand, and it don't matter to me if I do my therapy at the training facility or here. Don't matter to me one way or the other. Thought if I could help, I might as well do my therapy here."

"Bet Buddy Ryan's missing you," House shot back.

"Jim McMahon's filling in at QB for now. Yeah, they are missing me."

"What got your leg all busted up?" Cunningham asked House. Other patients started to recognize that voice and filter over to see Mr. Cunningham for themselves. Rather than feeling self-conscious for once, House was able to relax and just be lost in the crowd of this man's adoring fans.

"Hey, hey, clear the area!" Cunningham's body guard announced in a friendly but authoritative tone of voice. "No autographs today!" He'd been filled in ahead of time on the reason for Cunningham's presence at Princeton General today, and House was allowed to stay while everyone else was ushered back to their own areas of the physical therapy department.

House filled him in on what happened to his leg.

"Wow, man. You're a doctor?" Cunningham exclaimed. "Wow. It's bad enough when you don't know what could happen. I can't imagine how much I would worry if I knew all about the possible complications. I like going into surgery being completely ignorant."

"Yeah, well, you have two up on me. I have a track record of pissing nurses and therapists off where I work. That's why I'm glad I'm here instead of at PPTH. You already know all about physical therapy and I'm new to it. So you have two advantages over me," House replied.

"Like I said before, knowing all the ins and outs isn't always very comforting. Ruth here is pretty good. But there are plenty of chumps who aren't. I've seen some who don't know how to deal with cranky patients, who let cranky patients run the show rather than make them do the therapy the correct way. Take short cuts to jump-start the therapy rather than take things slow like they should be. Bad thing is, the patients are the ones who pay the price in the end. Ruth don't take no shit from nobody and she knows her business. Do what she says even when you're frustrated, and you will be. You're gonna hit a wall where you think you should be farther along than you are. Do what she says and you'll be fine."

House listened silently. It's one thing to have to listen to idiots lecture at you about something that they've never been through personally. Very often those words just go in one ear and out the other. It's quite another to hear them from someone who's been down that road before. Those are the people you listen to.

Some people are better listeners than others, though. Cunningham's words would soon prove to be quite prophetic.

After Cunningham's therapy was over and Ruth was ready to devote all her attention to House, Cunningham said a pleasant good bye to House and limped out on crutches. House stared after him as he left. House's gaze then moved out over all the other patients in the therapy room. Unlike some more modern physical therapy departments, Princeton General's physical therapy room was one of the old-fashioned ones, basically a gym with different types of apparatus in different areas. Each therapist had his or her own particular area of the gym where he or she saw patients. The newer physical therapy suites at other hospitals were just that – suites, separated by walls, where each therapist had a more private space to work with patients.

As Ruth explained what was in store for House today, he really wasn't paying attention because he was focused on studying all the other patients in the gym. As far as House was concerned, they all looked just as pathetic as he felt. Most were older than he and he thought they all looked like they belonged in a nursing home somewhere, just like he felt. It wasn't long after Cunningham left before the old self-consciousness and self-pity came flooding back.

"…and we're going to use the parallel bars today…" Ruth said. His attention came back to rest on her. "Did you hear anything I said? House, I need your attention."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Parallel bars. Got it." House snapped.

"How you gonna get to your feet in them?" Ruth asked.

House stared blankly at her.

"That's what I thought. Don't pay attention to the rest of them. Everyone's therapy is individually prescribed for them and whatever they're doing isn't going to be of any benefit to you at all. I'll say it again. Roll your chair up to the end of the parallel bars. I'll put the gait belt on you like we do for all your exercises. First off, you need to start using fingerless gloves or else you're going to get blisters on your hands. You should use the fingerless gloves at all times for now until your hands toughen up."

"Once you're in position between the parallel bars, with the gloves on, grab on to the bars and lean forward as if you were going to stand up. Put all your weight on your left leg and support yourself a few inches out of the chair. We'll do that a few times while I assess how ready you are to stand completely up."

House looked anxiously around as if he didn't want anyone to see him. "House, you need to get this idea that everyone is staring at you out of your head. They're not, and you need to focus on the task at hand. I need all of your focus on this, and if you're too concerned about everyone else in the room you stand a pretty good chance of losing your balance and falling. So put your blinders on and let's get going."

Situated in the proper position between the parallel bars, wearing his Eagles cap and his fingerless gloves, House did as she asked. After three reps he'd only managed to lift his butt about three inches out of the seat before collapsing back down into the chair again. Ruth looked pleased, as though that was satisfactory progress for a young mid-40's athletic man. It actually was wonderful progress for any man with muscle missing from his right leg, but that wasn't how House saw it. House looked miserable. _This is so utterly pathetic. What a loser, _he thought. Frustrated at what he perceived to be a lack of progress in terms of regaining his mobility and independence, he decided to take matters into his own hands.

Ruth was in mid-sentence, saying "That's great! Now take a…" when House, with a fierce look on his face and tears pouring down, grabbed the bars and abruptly jerked himself all the way to his feet. Unprepared for the sudden move, Ruth (who had been about to instruct him to take a breather) didn't have a hold on the gait belt. The momentum of the sudden move carried House a little too far forward. He'd borne all of his weight on his arms instead of using his left leg as Ruth would have instructed him later, so he had no way of stopping the forward momentum and fell flat on his face on the padded floor.

Laying there in a heap amidst tears and a bloody nose, House slammed his fists into the padded floor. All staff members came running to help, which only embarrassed him further. Ruth assessed no obvious signs of additional injury other than a bloody nose, and calmly said, "Thank God you didn't hit the bars on your way down. I wasn't expecting that move and you weren't ready for it either. I'll give you a few minutes to get composed and then we'll work on safely getting back in a chair or back on your feet after a fall. After you're off the floor, I'll get you some ice for your nose. I don't think it's broken. Calm down, you're alright." She gently rubbed his back while he regained his composure.

"Ready?"

House nodded.

"Ok. Hey everybody," she addressed the other staff members who had come to help, "I think we can handle this on our own. Thanks, though." The others walked back to their own patients. Ruth turned back to House. "This is an important lesson to learn. Scoot over to the wheel chair. Make sure the brakes are both locked securely."

House did as she said.

"Put your left leg underneath you and grab the arms of the wheel chair for support. Don't pull on the wheel chair or you'll pull it over on top of you. Push on the arms of the chair, like you're doing a push up. You'll have your weight on your arms and on your left leg. Then move your left leg underneath you more until you can just turn and plant your butt back in the chair. It's easier than it sounds."

House looked at her like what she wanted him to do was impossible. "Who's going to help you when you fall after you go home? You need to learn to do this yourself. And don't tell me you can't do it – what you just did in the parallel bars is a lot more physically taxing than what I'm showing you right now."

With a sigh of frustration, House did as she explained. Huffing and puffing, and with none too much grace, he managed to get back into the chair independently. Ruth immediately got him an ice pack for his bloody nose.

House just felt even more like a pathetic loser. All the confidence and bravado he was so full of in his previous life seemed to have completely evaporated. Now his days were marked by exhaustion, fear of pain, fear of falling, embarrassment and self-consciousness. Getting to meet Randall Cunningham was a good thing, but it didn't last. Good things never do. House doubted he'd ever see him again. In House's eyes, it was just some famous guy visiting a charity case. _Ok, got the photo op in. Time to move on to the next poor sap._

Ruth helped him with the ice pack and waited until his nose bleed stopped.

"So I guess I have you to thank for bringing the big guy in," House said from behind the ice pack and Kleenexes.

"Actually it had nothing to do with you. They all come in once in awhile when they're in town, if for no other reason than just to say hi to patients. He had planned on coming in before we even knew you were coming to the department. Sometimes they visit patient rooms but they don't always have the time to do that. Normally when they come, they pop in to the PT room for a few minutes. If they are injured and doing therapy, they might take the time to do it while they're in the room here. If they're not injured, they sometimes take a few extra minutes to go around to the patient rooms on the rehab floor. You just happened to catch him at the right time in the right place."

"Lucky lucky me. Well, we done here or what?" House snarked.

"Since you managed to escape any injury a few minutes ago, nope, we're not done. You went a little too far too fast. We are going to stand, but not the way you tried to do it!" Ruth said, smiling.

House just rolled his eyes.

"Roll yourself back up to the parallel bars, then lock both brakes on the chair."

House did as she asked.

"Good. The gait belt is still on you. If the belt is too tight, let me know and I'll fix it."

House was about to make a wry comment about moving the belt a little farther south, but thought better of it given the fact that the dumb belt might be the only way she had of hanging on to him.

"I'm not going to hang on tightly to you. If I did that, I would pull you off balance. The purpose for the belt is so I can steady you if I need to. Now that the chair is where we want it, take the wheel chair legs off the chair." She showed him how to do that. House winced when he used his hands to lift his right leg off the wheel chair's leg support. Everything hurt after the fall. "We take the legs off the chair so they don't swing back accidentally when you're standing up, and risk tripping you."

"Good. Now plant your left foot down flat and firmly on the floor. Scoot forward in the chair. Put all your weight on your left foot. Grab both bars, but don't pull yourself up with your arms. Use your arms to pull up a little bit, but bear all your weight on your left foot. Standing up should not involve any jerking or sudden movements. Take your time and take it slowly. I'm holding on to the belt in case you lose your balance. You'll be sore after the fall, but you can do this."

Having had one bad experience between the parallel bars already, he wasn't nearly as certain of his ability as she was, but if he was ever going to get out of this room today he had a feeling he'd better cooperate with her. He took his time and managed to stand on his left foot, although he could feel both of Ruth's hands on the belt and he felt like he was gripping the bars for all he was worth. Still, though, he did it! He felt like he'd just won some big race at the Olympics but all he'd done was stand between the parallel bars. Ruth didn't actually have to help all that much. His balance was a little off but he quickly learned that Ruth was right again. Moving too fast and putting all his weight on his arms was what threw his balance off the first time. Frustrated or not, he wasn't about to make the same mistake again.

Nervously, he looked at Ruth. "How'm I doing, Boss Lady? Can I sit back down?"

Ruth double checked the brakes on the chair to make sure they were locked. "You're doing fine, and yes, you can sit back down. Sit down just as slowly as you stood up. Try not to plop back down into the chair because even if the brakes are locked, you can still move the chair if you sit down too hard. When the wheel chair is behind you and you can't see the brakes, ask someone to double check and make sure the brakes are locked before you sit down."

Knowing full well she had already checked the brakes, House figured he was being tested. He grinned and asked "are the brakes locked ma'am?"

"Smart ass. Yes, and good for you for asking. You passed the test!" Ruth smiled in reply.


	32. After the fall

**A/N – After uploading this the first time, I spotted some things that didn't make a lot of sense. Even though I already established this is AU, it spiraled out of control in this chapter and got way too AU for me. I had to go back and fix it. Earlier in the story I established that the House/Stacy/Sam/Wilson relationship rat's nest didn't exactly go according to the timeline established on the show. On the show, Sam served Wilson divorce papers in Louisiana and that's where House and Wilson met, so House never even knew Sam until years later. And on the show, Stacy left House five years after the infarction. In my story, she left him pretty much right away. My intention was to give the women reasons to be jealous, and let jealousy raise its ugly head and see who ends up hooking up with who in the fallout. I'm a Hilson shipper now, so you can guess where this is going. **

It had been a full day for House and he was very sore and tired. After the fall in the physical therapy department, Ruth notified House's physiatrist who, in turn, notified Dr. Anderson. Back in his room, House's pain ramped up significantly and the fentanyl patch was becoming increasingly ineffective as the evening wore on. Wilson paced around House's bed wringing his hands, frustrated by, among other things, the fact that the fall was preventable if House had just listened to Ruth in the first place. Now that it had happened, it couldn't be undone. While the pain would no doubt be temporary, tonight would be miserable. Anderson ordered a head CT scan since House was on blood thinners. He also ordered facial, chest, arm and leg x rays to look for any fractures. Just as Ruth had assessed immediately after the fall, no new injuries were found. Despite the nasty bloody nose, made messier by the blood thinner, House's nose was not broken and neither was anything else.

However, a new problem was rapidly developing.

House was already on the strongest available fentanyl patch. Clearly his current level of pain was not manageable on this alone. He could not receive meperidine because of the previous kidney problem. An additional fentanyl booster could have been given intravenously, however, his IV lines had been removed. House refused to allow any new IVs to be inserted. A fentanyl booster could also have been given intramuscularly, however, House loudly informed the nurses that he was tired of being a pin cushion. Wilson geared up for a long night ahead.

Anderson wrote new pain medication orders to be used tonight only. He knew that the chances were excellent that things would settle down when the bumps and bruises from the fall settled down, so the need for additional pain medication on top of the fentanyl patch would be temporary.

Anderson ordered for House to get a non-steroidal anti inflammatory called ketorolac along with heating pads.

He'd discussed it with House, of course. "House, I'd rather not try to give you any more fentanyl because you're already on the highest possible dose through the patch. What you're getting now isn't helping so there's no point in just piling on more even if we could. This is just temporary and it'll go away when the bumps and bruises go away, so I'm going to put you on ketorolac and heating pads tonight. Ketorolac is an excellent short term non steroidal anti inflammatory. We only use it for a couple of days. In your case, I really only want to use it tonight. There is an injectable form but I understand you don't want to be stuck any more than is necessary. I'm going to use the tablets. We could also use what dentists prescribe for oral surgery patients; a combination of ibuprofen and acetaminophen. Both of those prescriptions work very well, oddly enough, for relief of short term severe pain. Most of my patients who aren't health care professionals think I'm a quack for prescribing over the counter non-narcotics for severe pain, but dentists have been doing it for some time now. It works excellently for oral surgery patients. In fact, it works better than narcotics. We'll start with the ketorolac for now. If you don't get any significant relief after the tablets have had time to work, we'll do the ibuprofen/acetaminophen mix. Whatever we do, we will get you more comfortable tonight."

Wilson continued his pacing and hand-wringing.

"Will you STOP THAT, for God's sake! You're driving me nuts!" House shouted. His face was bruising, he had a black eye and a cut lip, and at the rate everything was swelling, it was looking highly unlikely that he'd be able to do any physical therapy tomorrow.

"How… what….. what in the hell happened down there?" Wilson stuttered. "How did you fall?"

"It doesn't really matter what I say. You're going to yell at me anyway; so I'm pleading the fifth."

Meanwhile, down the hall, the disability support group meeting was about to start their evening meeting. Looking out and not seeing House in attendance, Laura was concerned for him. About 15 minutes into the meeting, Laura quietly left and went in search of House. As she got closer to his room, she heard the heated exchange between the two men. Her ears really perked up when she heard House say that it didn't matter what he said because Wilson would yell at him anyway.

Laura knocked gently on House's door and waited for permission to enter. When it was granted, she looked at House for a few minutes and smiled softly to herself. "Honestly, I'm not laughing at you. I'm laughing at myself because I bet I know how you got that mess. I did some silly shit the first time they let me out of my room for therapy. I'm sure they've already asked you this question eight zillion times so if you don't want to answer it, I understand – you don't have to. What happened?"

House took a deep breath (or as deep as his sore ribs would let him) and told her the abbreviated version.

Laura stifled another gentle, soft laugh. "Boy, I've been there and done that. Do you want to hear the first stupid thing I did? Not to say that what you did was stupid because it wasn't." Wilson looked at her sharply when she said that. "What he did was not stupid! Impulsive, maybe, but not stupid. Never think that trying to jump start your therapy is stupid. It's never stupid to want to be more functional, more independent. It was just an impulsive thing to do, and we all do impulsive things."

House smiled smugly at Wilson. Wilson softened his tone and stopped pacing and hand-wringing. "Yeah, I think we want to hear what you did," Wilson said to Laura.

"The first time they let me out of my room I got drunk. Yeah, I got drunk. I didn't mean to get drunk, though. I just wanted to enjoy a favorite ice cream treat with my friend. Alcohol in a hospital is expressly verboten. I had a friend sneak in some crème de menthe and we went down the hall into the day room. I had a feeding tube at the time because my throat was too damaged to swallow anything. The nurses were in the process of teaching me how to administer my own tube feeding liquid meals through the feeding tube. My friend and I made shakes out of ice cream and crème de menthe. Shakes go down a feeding tube quite easily. I'd forgotten that alcohol, even such a small amount, wasn't supposed to be mixed with my other medications. What for anyone else would have just been a delicious mint-flavored shake wound up being a nicely intoxicating substance for me. I went back to my room high as a kite on crème de menthe. The next time the nurses gave me my regular tube feeding liquid meal, I puked green milk shake all over the place. I never told them why."

Wilson was bursting with laughter. House was holding his ribs trying hard not to laugh. It came out as a series of loud snorts instead. Both men looked conspiratorially at each other, and finally Wilson spoke up. "Alcohol isn't the only intoxicating substance that has been through the doors of this hospital recently." They looked at each other, snorted with laughter, and said nothing else.

Laura said, "And I doubt you want to tell me what that other intoxicating substance was. I'm just asking you, Wilson, try not to judge anything he does in therapy as 'stupid'. I'm not saying you did, but believe me, there were plenty of people who told me what I did was stupid after my friend got caught with the liquor. I didn't think it was stupid then and I don't think it was stupid now. I was just trying to enjoy a favored treat with my friend. It was impulsive, but I was trying to be normal. That's all he was trying to do too."

House felt the need to add something. "I am just so sick of everyone looking at me like a pathetic cripple. You want to know what possessed me to do that? It's not pathetic to just want to stand up on your own. All I want to do is stand up on my own without feeling like I'm some kind of weakling, about to topple over at any minute. As it turned out, that's exactly what I did. The worst part is I didn't prove a damn thing except that I'm bullheaded. I just want to feel normal, that's all."

Laura paused a moment, then said "I hear you. You said something in the first sentence that I found fascinating. You said everyone looks at you like a pathetic cripple. Because I've been there myself, I would suggest that you're the one who looks at yourself like a pathetic cripple. I know how easy it is to feel that way about yourself and then project that feeling onto others. Am I correct when I say that you look at yourself that way?"

House just looked at her and said nothing; however the expression in his eyes said it all.

"I can't wait to see you back with us in the meeting. Every person in that room has been through what you're feeling now. A lot of people are still stuck there, trying to help each other get out of that funk. Think you'll be at tomorrow's meeting?" Laura asked.

"Oh yeah!" both men replied.

"Great! If we were in the meeting now, I would not let this drop. As it is tonight, I think you'd get a lot more out of the group if you'd say exactly what you just told me but say it to the group instead. Maybe it would help if you wrote it down – not that I think you'd forget any of it, but maybe if you write it down first it'll help you keep your courage when you're with the whole group and not just with me. Sound like a plan?" Laura asked, smiling.

"Guess so," House replied.

On her way out of his room, Laura cast a sidelong glance at House. "I really want to see you there tomorrow, Dr. House. Promise me you'll at least give it a try."

"I will."

As they got ready to bed down for the night, the charge nurse came in to assess House and check on his pain level. One more person asking the meaningless question about whether or not he was in pain, when any moron could see that he was. "I'm fine!" House snapped.

Wilson looked from House to the nurse to see if the nurse looked like she actually believed him.

"So is that a zero, a one, what?" the nurse asked.

House clamped his eyes shut out of pure frustration. "I don't know. It hurts. I guess about a four. I'm not taking any more ibuprofen or Tylenol. I don't want any more ketorolac either and it's too soon for another dose anyway. I'm sick of being doped up all the time and I know I'm going to hurt worse tonight because of the fall. Maybe if I can sleep it will help."

Wilson just looked at the nurse and shrugged. "I'll be here with him. We'll let you know if he needs more."

After the nurse left, House said "You didn't have to say that. I _can_ talk for myself."

"I know, but don't say 'I'm fine' when you're not. If she hadn't asked you more questions, she could have just taken you at your word and left."

"Maybe that's all I want. Maybe I just want to be left alone!" House snapped, and slammed his fist down on the bed.

Wilson picked up his things to leave.

"No, I don't mean you. Oh shit, I don't know what I'm saying any more. I'm just tired of having to depend on strangers all the time and I'm tired of not being able to do what I want to do when I want to do it. I'm tired of hurting, I'm tired of being doped up all the time, and I'm tired of not getting enough sleep. It has nothing to do with you. Don't leave," House pleaded.

Wilson pulled up his familiar recliner next to House's bed. "I won't leave. And I'm sorry it sounded like I was lecturing you. I know you think I worry too much. But look at you. You always tell people you're fine when you're not. I think you need me around to interpret your standard 'I'm fine' response." Wilson smiled gently. "I just need to go home for an hour or two. I'm coming back, I promise. I even asked the nurse to put a cot or another bed in here so I don't have to sleep in this stupid recliner any more."

"Ok. Promise you're coming back. Pinky swear."

"Oh, you've got to be kidding. What are you, like five or something? Take me at my word. Yes I'm coming back later tonight," Wilson said on his way out.

House closed his eyes in what he already knew would most likely be a futile attempt to sleep tonight. He WAS hurting, but he also told the truth when he said he was tired of being doped up all the time. If the only choice is between hurting and being doped up constantly, sometimes hurting is the lesser of the two evils.

While trying to go to sleep, House's mind started going into overdrive. _Oh yeah, I'm going to get a lot of sleep tonight,_ House thought sarcastically. _I can't shut my mind down for two seconds, let alone eight hours._

House had been thinking a lot lately about his situation with Wilson. He'd been questioning himself a lot lately, and he wondered if Wilson was doing the same. _We like spending time together. Is this going somewhere_? _I'm straight. He's straight. Right?_

Then he started thinking about how neither one of them could seem to commit to the relationships they had been in up until now. House's mind was in overdrive tonight because he was hurting too badly to relax and go to sleep. He needed a distraction and he just couldn't let this go. House tried every way he could think of to rationalize why neither of them could commit to a relationship with the women in their lives, and the only relationship that lasted the test of time was their own friendship. House could have asked Stacy to marry him a long time ago. Coulda, shoulda, woulda. He was comfortable with the way things were, at least up until Stacy left him. But to truly commit to that relationship meant that he should have asked her to marry him. He didn't, and she left. Maybe that's why she left. Maybe it had nothing to do with the thought that she might be caring for a cripple the rest of their lives together. Maybe she left because she knew he would never commit to being her husband.

And then there's Wilson. Wilson didn't have too many weaknesses but the big blaring one was that he was attracted to needy people. As soon as they didn't need him anymore, he'd find another charity case to latch on to. Actually, the charity cases tended to find and latch on to him more so than the other way around. For as much as House liked to drive people away and pretend that he didn't need to commit to another person, House was the king of neediness. Maybe that was another reason Stacy left. Maybe she'd had her fill of him needing her all the time but at the same time not being willing to commit to her for a lifetime of marriage.

Was he the reason why Sam left Wilson? Wilson's commitments tended to last a very short period of time. He had this nagging feeling that even though Sam didn't really know him all that well, for some reason she was jealous of him. House knew that Wilson had been seeing other women. That much was public knowledge. But what wasn't public knowledge and what neither House nor Wilson had ever admitted even to each other was that Sam really might have a valid reason to be jealous of House. Though House couldn't prove it, he was becoming more and more convinced that Sam thought there was more to House and Wilson's friendship than just "friendship".

Though their relationship had never progressed to anything beyond a platonic "bromance", House wasn't sure how long he could deny the deeper feelings he had for Wilson now that Wilson was making himself even more a part of House's life than he was before.

Thoughts about Wilson had been festering below the surface ever since they met. House was not sure when the right time was to discuss them with Wilson, if there WAS a right time, or even if they should be talked about at all.

House's mind finally began to wind down and he drifted off to sleep. Wilson was coming back, and if there was a right time to talk about these things, House would know soon enough. These feelings couldn't stay below the surface for too much longer since it was looking more and more like Wilson would be House's sole support after discharge.

As promised, Wilson returned a little over an hour later. Someone had quietly set up a small cot in House's room. Wilson cast a fond look over House to make sure he was comfortable. Satisfied that House was actually sleeping and not faking it, Wilson crawled quietly into the cot.

As tired as he was, Wilson propped his hands under his head in the cot and laid awake thinking. He had a lot on his mind.

His life was in the midst of a drastic change. Sam had left, and Stacy had left House. Wilson wondered if the full impact of Stacy's leaving had hit House yet. He wondered if the rest of the proverbial shit would hit the fan when House went home to a life without Stacy. Wilson found himself thinking about his motives for wanting to help House, to spend so much more time with him that he had in the past, for wanting to move in with him. Sure, he liked being needed, and House was needy even in the best of times. Now, "needy" was nowhere close to accurately describing his friend. But was it just because House needed him? Was it because he wanted to shield his friend from the pain of losing Stacy just when he needed her more than ever? Or was there something more there?

Wilson would move in with House, at least while he was recovering at home and continuing his rehabilitation as an outpatient. Wilson suspected that, before she left, Sam had become jealous of House, which was weird. Of all the people to have a valid reason to be jealous of, why pick the one he'd never had a physical relationship with? Why be jealous of someone who's sick? Between House and the pool of women he actually HAD cheated on her with, she seemed, lately, to have become far more jealous of House than of anyone else. They'd had plenty of arguments recently over the women he'd cheated on her with, but none were so vile and vicious as the arguments they had over House. What was it about House that apparently made Sam so jealous?

Thank God House was asleep, at least for now. Wilson could delay the conversation he needed to have at least a couple more hours. Wilson finally let his need for sleep get the better of him, and blissfully drifted off into dreamland.

Dreamland, though, didn't last too long.

Wilson stirred when he heard soft moaning coming from the other bed.

"Wilson."

"Yeah?" Wilson mumbled.

House cried softly. "I'm hurting so bad! I can't reach the call button to call the nurse. I'm sorry I woke you up."

"You have nothing to apologize for. I'm here. Let me call the nurse," Wilson said, pressing the call button for House with one hand and gently holding his hand with the other.

House was really trying to keep it all together, but a leg that was already hurting to begin with and a body that had been battered in the fall yesterday was proving too much to handle. "I'm sorry!" House blubbered, having lost any semblance of control over his emotions. He was simply too tired and hurting too much to care about keeping his emotions in check.

"Don't worry about it. She's coming. What can I do to help?" Wilson asked.

"Just stay with me. I can't deal with this alone."

"I'm not going anywhere. You don't have to deal with this alone," Wilson said softly.

The nurse walked softly into the room armed with a few choices. "Dr. House, we can try a couple of things. Of course you can have a fentanyl booster intramuscularly. It's too soon for any more ketorolac, but we can try a small dose of morphine intramuscularly too. Or we can go to purely mechanical means of pain relief like a heating pad. I know Dr. Anderson ordered heating pads for you earlier but we didn't have any on the floor. Central Supply just brought some up. What would you like to try?"

House appreciated being given the choice. "Let's try the heating pads. I'm steeped in so much medication now that I would never be able to tell if another medication would help or not."

"Alright, I'm going to start applying heating pads to the bumps and bruises. You let me know if they're too warm, not warm enough, if you want fewer pads or more pads. I'm going to let you guide me so I know if I'm helping or not." With that, the nurse expertly applied heating pads to his arms and legs, one right after the other, until he nodded that four were enough. "This room's already hot enough!"


	33. Food for thought

There's nothing quite like the torment of needing to move to relieve pressure on painful limbs and not being able to. House found that if he laid stock still in one position, he could get a little sleep. "Little" being the operative word. It reminded him of the last time he decided to earn a little extra money shoveling snow when he was a college undergrad. He needed some pocket change and decided to head out to one of the local neighborhoods after they'd had a foot of snow. School was closed for the day, so what a perfect time to earn some money! With shovel in hand he decided to prove his worth shoveling snow. He was in peak physical condition but still, it had been a year or so since he'd done any serious snow shoveling. After doing about four driveways and making a measly fifteen bucks, he trudged off back to his dorm. Hours later, in the middle of the night after finishing several hours in the books, every damn muscle bit back at him. Never shovel four driveways back to back, without a break, by yourself!

Fast forward to the present. He felt just like he'd shoveled fifteen driveways back to back and all he'd earned for his efforts was a smashed face and a crippled leg.

House looked over at Wilson, sleeping much more comfortably now that he actually had a cot he could stretch out in. House was starting to feel jealous of Wilson for being able to stretch out and move himself so freely, without the limitation of pain. Then he caught himself. _I don't deserve him_, he thought. _Sure, he's a little overbearing but…_ and then House caught himself. _Wait, who's calling who overbearing?_ he smiled to himself. _He's worried about me_. He liked that Wilson worried about him. It's comforting to know that someone cares that much about you that he's willing to put up with the worst shit you can dish out. House was still dealing with two internally warring entities – the hope that Stacy would come back as a friend, and the hope that Wilson would never leave. If Stacy did come back, would there be equal room in his life for both? Not really. If Stacy came back, would Wilson be happy being a friend again instead of lover? Wilson might SAY so, but House wouldn't be happy with that situation. Did he really want Stacy to come back if it meant taking Wilson's increasingly more important place in his life? No. So that meant, if Stacy came back, how would he make her understand that he valued her as a friend and not a lover? Maybe he should just hope she doesn't come back at all, not even as a friend.

Lying there stiffly on his back, counting the ceiling tiles and then the pores in each tile, House decided to just suffer through the pain and not call a nurse again. The heating pads had worked earlier, but they had to take them off every once in awhile to avoid burning the skin. He wanted them back on, but calling a nurse would have meant waking Wilson up again and he didn't want that. Calling a nurse would also probably have been fruitless as there really wasn't much they could do to help him other than the heating pads. He had taken the ketorolac tablets on an empty stomach and paid the price for that indiscretion with nausea shortly thereafter. Ibuprofen and acetaminophen wouldn't have been much easier to tolerate. He should have something in his stomach when taking any of these medications but the thought of eating anything made him even sicker. The fentanyl worked fine for the deeper pain in his leg, but was proving not to be very helpful for the lesser bumps and bruises that were bothering him now. House decided that the least of all the evils was just to wait it out and suffer through it, knowing that the bumps and bruises would be gone in a day or two. He'd wait until Wilson woke up for good in the morning and then call a nurse.

Several hours later, morning was approaching and Wilson woke up to answer the call of nature. When he stood up he saw House's face in full bloom, with various shades of purple, yellow, blue and green bruises splashed all over his face like a bad watercolor. With his fat lip, his face looked like a boxer in the fourteenth round. House was wide awake staring silently at Wilson. "I was wondering when you were going to wake up," House said through gritted teeth. "I was trying to let you sleep."

"How long have you been laying there awake and suffering like that? Why didn't you wake me up or call the nurse? Moron!" Wilson sighed with a smile, then added, "Hold on while I, as you like to call it, drain the hose. I'll be right back. Call the nurse!"

A few minutes later Wilson padded out of the bathroom. "I didn't call the nurse earlier because I didn't want to wake you up. The bumps and bruises are hurting like hell but they will go away. I'll be fine," House muttered, through teeth still gritted.

Wilson threw his hands up in the air, exasperated. "When are you going to get it through your thick head that you don't have to suffer like that! I don't know what's going through your head. Do you think you deserve to suffer or something? Well I don't! I don't like seeing you suffer when there's something that can be done about it. You have to let me or the nurse know! I don't want to see someone I love hurting like that! Yes, I love you, you idiot!" Wilson shouted. _Wait, did I really just shout that out loud?_ Wilson thought. Wilson and House looked at each other dumbfounded. House had never been at such a loss for words like he was now. House awkwardly broke the silence. "Did you really just say what I think you said?"

Wilson hesitated a split second more then said, "Well, yeah. Yeah. Yeah, I did. There. I said it. Don't make me regret it. Next time you need something, wake me up or call the nurse! I'm pissed that you laid there and suffered for what must have felt like eternity rather than call the nurse! Who cares if you wake me up! I want you to wake me up! I told you awhile back that we'll get through this together!" Wilson took a deep breath and calmed down. "I'm not mad. I'm actually relieved now that I said it. Just promise me that you won't lay there and suffer just because you don't want to bother me."

"You shouldn't have to be my nursemaid. I don't want a nursemaid."

"House, for God's sake, it's not about that! I don't want to be your nursemaid, as you call it, either. I want to be WITH YOU. That means when we go out to dinner, at home in front of the TV getting drunk watching hockey, when you're sick, when I'm sick, when we're both well, now, in ten years, when we retire from that God-forsaken place we call PPTH, when you're 90, when I'm in court battling Sam, whatever. That's not called being your nursemaid. It's called being in love. In good times AND bad, you know."

House closed his eyes. "It's called caring. I'm tired, you're tired, and I have therapy right after breakfast. Can you do me a favor and ask the nurse if I can have some ketorolac? I really don't want any more pain pills but the way things are going, I don't think I have a choice. I'm probably still not going to get through much therapy today even with an extra pain pill."

"Sure."

A New Day

After breakfast, House decided he'd had enough of sponge baths. The nurse came in to give him his ketorolac. "I need a bath," House said.

"Ok, we can do that! Do you want a sponge bath here, a tub bath, or a shower?" the nurse asked.

"A shower. I haven't had a shower yet. Can I use the big shower room down the hall so my friend can have the shower in here?"

"Sure. What can I do to help?" the nurse said softly.

"Just park the wheel chair here, at this angle, next to the bed. I don't trust myself to get up in the chair alone without falling but I don't need you to hang on to me. Just stand close by in case I need help." Wilson stood by on the other side of the room proudly. THIS was what he needed to hear; House taking something on by himself but not ashamed to ask the nurse to stand by in case she was needed.

With the chair properly positioned and the brakes locked, House scooted over to the wheel chair as the nurse stood behind him in case he needed her help. As sore as he was, he transferred himself and wheeled himself out of his room and down the hallway to the shower. The hot steamy water would feel wonderful on an achy body.

The nurse followed behind with his shampoo, toothpaste, deodorant, toothbrush, brush, comb and towels.

The shower room was huge. It contained several large tubs and several shower stalls big enough to roll a wheel chair into. Each shower stall contained a plastic shower chair that looked just like a wheel chair but it was made entirely of plastic and rubber. The shower heads had hand-held shower hoses attached to them so that the wheel chair patient could shower independently. The stalls were lined with grab bars on both sides and in the front for patients who could stand.

House was only wearing a hospital gown, so he could easily undress without assistance. But that wasn't the issue. The issue was how to get into the shower chair. He couldn't stand long enough to shower while standing, and the standard issue hospital wheel chairs have a lot of metal and aren't water proof. The whole idea was to transfer out of the hospital wheel chair into a shower chair, and leave the hospital wheel chair outside the shower stall. When finished showering, the patient dries himself, dresses, and then transfers from the wet shower chair to the dry wheel chair.

House had no intention of allowing some nubile young thing into the shower stall while he was enjoying the first hot shower he'd had since admission. He was able to transfer independently into the shower chair simply by removing the sides from both chairs, putting them next to each other and sliding over.

Happy with one more task completed independently and with dignity, he rolled under the shower and took the longest, hottest shower and shampoo that he'd had since before his hospitalization.

Then he continued enjoying himself after the shower. Little Greg certainly enjoyed the attention. He hadn't had a release in weeks and this one was awesome. He knew he'd be able to get at least another two hours of sleep after this one.

But House hadn't planned for what happened next. Little Greg wouldn't relax, for some reason. This was very odd. He actually never expected Little Greg to salute, given the narcotics and other medications he was on. When Little Greg came to attention, it was wonderful. Then Little Greg wouldn't relax. This was odd, and a little unnerving. Maybe all the hot water got things a little more revved up than normal. At any rate, he was in an embarrassing situation. He was going to need help to get out of the shower chair into the wheel chair. Why is it when you want it up it won't go up, and when you don't, the damn thing won't go down?

House pressed the call light in the shower. Thank God someone answered over the intercom instead of just barging in on him.

"How can I help you?" The voice sounded sweet, young, and probably belonged to someone very attractive.

"Mistake. I don't need anything." What he really wanted was a little bag of ice, but he really did NOT want some young cute thing walking in on him like that. Maybe a little cold water from the shower would help. He grabbed the hand held shower hose again, turned the cold water on and aimed for the right spot.

Within minutes a nurse knocked on the door of the shower stall .

"Are you Ok? Do you need help?" she asked.

"I'm fine! I'll call you when I'm done," he said from behind the closed shower stall door.

As Little Greg relaxed, House sighed. _Well, if this isn't a sad joke. Here I am still ready and raring to go, and the one who might want to enjoy it with me is all the way down the hall._

A few minutes later he was able to dry himself and get back into the wheel chair. He rolled up to one of the sinks, brushed his teeth and had his first good look at his face. He fingered the cut on his lip. The black eye was already beginning to fade and so were most of the other smaller bruises on his face. He needed to trim his beard back, but he figured it would be safer to wait another day or two until the cut on his lip healed.

He didn't even bother brushing his hair. It wouldn't stay down anyway. At least it was clean.

He pressed the call button for the nurse. Someone knocked on the door so quickly that it couldn't possibly be the nurse. The nurse wouldn't have had time to answer the call button.

"Done yet?" said the voice. _Oh God, it's Wilson…_

"Yeah. Just hold the door open for me. I can handle the chair."

Rolling himself back to his room, it was nice that Wilson walked next to him so they could talk. It's hard to talk to people when you're in a wheel chair and the person you want to talk to is behind you acting like they want to push your chair for you.

"I was thinking about getting the bathroom at home fixed up. But I want it done right. I want grab bars installed by my toilet and my bathtub. I want to go online and order the bars myself so I can pick out the right color and style. I don't want just any old chrome thing going in there. I want them to look right. After I buy the bars could you handle getting someone to install them?"

Wilson exclaimed, "House, I'm happy to do that! I'll bring over your laptop and is there anything else from your office that you want while I'm getting your laptop?" Wilson couldn't help but notice that House said "the" bathroom instead of "my" bathroom. Was that important?

"Yeah. Bring some journals. Thanks. I need to stay caught up."

"Will do."

As they neared his room, House saw Ruth waiting there for him. "You look better than I thought you would today. How's the nose?" Ruth asked.

"I feel like a fighter who went fourteen rounds and still lost the damn fight. But I'll get through it. I just took a shower by myself. Whoop de do. At least I smell better than I look."

"Well, you know you have therapy now. What we do in therapy depends on how sore you really are. You want to roll yourself to therapy or do you need a hand?"

"No thanks. I can roll myself. Let me do it at my own pace. I'll see you there in a few minutes," House said.

About fifteen minutes later, House and Wilson arrived in the physical therapy room. House's appointment was the first one for the day, so there were no other patients in the therapy room yet. Ruth was waiting by the dreaded parallel bars.

"Wilson wants to watch. You know he's a voyeur. He loves seeing me get tortured." House said.

"I have no problem with that. In fact I'm going to let him get involved if it's Ok with you. I can show him how to do passive range of motion exercises with your right leg."

"Sounds fine to me, but be gentle!" House growled.

"The original goal for today was to have you up walking in the parallel bars. Yesterday's fall kind of threw a wrench into our plans. I think we ought to put that off until tomorrow. I thought this morning we'd take a step back and do range of motion and strengthening exercises. For your arms I'll have you do arm curls with weights, and you can do leg lifts with weights on your left leg. I'll show Wilson how to do passive range of motion exercises on your right leg. If everything goes alright and you don't have any cramping, then during the second session this afternoon we'll stand up in the parallel bars. We'll put off walking until tomorrow."

"Oh, aren't I lucky." House groused.

House transferred himself gingerly from the wheel chair to the cushioned platform. It was like a big king sized bed but instead of a mattress, it was covered with a thick well-padded cushion. Ruth had the gait belt around his waist in case he needed support from her, but he was again able to accomplish the transfer by himself. House slid his left leg under his right leg for support, and moved his legs over onto the platform because Ruth wanted him to lie down for these exercises. Once he was lying down as comfortably as could be, Ruth showed Wilson how to use his left hand to support House's right thigh in a flexed position and then use his right hand to put House's right knee, ankle and foot through passive range of motion exercises. House no longer needed to wear the boot John had originally prescribed for his right foot. Wilson was afraid to hurt him and perhaps a little afraid to put his joints through complete range of motion. Wilson was acting like House was a thin-shelled egg, about to break at the slightest motion. Every time he would move House's joints even just a fraction of an inch, he looked at House as though House might start screaming or something. House just grinned and bore it.

It actually was kind of funny. Here was the head of oncology at a major hospital, who shoved giant needles into people to do bone marrow biopsies almost every day of his life, and he was afraid of moving his friend's leg about a quarter of an inch.

"You need to put his joints through their complete range of motion even if it hurts. It's going to hurt, especially after the fall. He's going to be stiff. With the stiffness, it's even more important to put his joints through their complete range of motion. You don't have to be so timid about it. Don't be rough, but do flex his hip, knee and ankle as far as they'll go." Ruth stood by closely while Wilson tried again. "That's better. Do ten reps on each joint."

"Hey! Doesn't it matter what the patient on the mat says?" House shot back.

"Not when the patient on the mat doesn't say anything," Ruth replied.

"Well this patient on this mat says the ten reps are done."

"Not until they're done on each joint. He did your hip. Now he has to do your knee and ankle. Moving it a quarter of an inch doesn't count. If you're really hurting so much that we can't continue, let us know. We'll stop and move on to something else."

"Buzzkill," House said to Ruth. Then he looked at Wilson as if to say it was Ok to continue and that he appreciated what Wilson was doing for him, even if he might not put it into words.

"It hurts a lot, but it's going to hurt more if it stiffens up any more, so keep going," House said. Then he closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and sighed, "Thank you."

Once Wilson was done with the ten reps on House's hip, knee and ankle, it was time for House to take over with the other three extremities.

"Dr. House, you can sit up now. It's your turn to take over. Would you like a hand?" Ruth asked.

"No, you don't have to clap for me, but I could use some help if that's what you're asking," House quipped back.

As she extended her arm for him to grab onto and pull himself up to a sitting position, she added, "Glad to see your sense of humor is back."

He carefully swung his legs over the side of the platform. Once he was sitting upright, Ruth applied two pound weight bands around both arms. House already knew what to do, and silently started his workout. Ruth stood back and admired the master analyst at work. With furrowed brow he patiently and vigorously put each arm muscle and joint through its paces.

After he was finished with both arms, Ruth put a two pound weight band around his left ankle and he went to work on all the joints and muscles in his left leg. He even did a few extra reps (on top of the ten prescribed reps) abducting and adducting his left hip and thigh muscles. All around, it was an excellent and thorough workout.

Even though he wasn't going to stand or walk in the parallel bars this morning, he still felt proud of his accomplishments this morning, with the shower and the good workout, minor though some others might consider those things to be. They weren't minor to him and for once it didn't matter what anyone else might have thought. For the first time in a long time, the only thing that mattered to him was what he thought.

Ruth handed House a cool wet towel to wipe his sweaty face and hands. As he dried himself off, she sat next to him with some words of encouragement.

"You did well this morning! I'm really proud of you. You could have just as easily refused to come to PT. You could have just as easily told me you were too sore to do PT; but you were a trooper and hung in there. Good job. If I were you, when you get back to your room, I'd ask the nurses to apply heating pads again but just to your right leg. I don't see anything swollen but it'll help with the stiffness. I see you don't seem to need any assistance getting back into the wheel chair. Would you like me to roll you back to your room?"

By the time she was finished verbalizing those sentiments, House was already back in his wheel chair. "No, think I got it from here," he said. "See you this afternoon."


	34. Selective Deafness Disorder

Back in his room for lunch, House realized his backside was just as sore as everything else was. He was going to have to ask for a cushion in the wheel chair next time he got up. The big question was whether or not he should get back in bed. Eating is always much more pleasurable when sitting up out of bed, but not when the backside won't stop complaining. Back to bed it was, then.

Wilson knew that House would have a lot on his mind especially after what Wilson blurted out that morning. It remained to be seen whether or not House wanted to actually talk about it. Wilson decided to let House take the lead on that one.

For once, House decided to eat the food on his lunch tray. Wilson had the kitchen bring up another tray and he dug into his food silently. All the while House was eating, he had his eyes fixed intently on Wilson waiting for Wilson to say something.

"I guess I'm going to have to break the impasse. You wanna explain what you said this morning?" House asked slyly, in between bites of something that resembled a cheeseburger in appearance only.

"I don't know how I can be any clearer. I might not have intended to say it exactly that way, but you heard what I said."

"I'm not gay!" House yelled, with his mouth full of food.

"Yell it louder. Maybe the mailman two miles away didn't hear you."

"Oh shut up! You told me you loved me. How am I supposed to react to that! I AM NOT GAY!" House yelled again.

"I never said you were. Let me finish before you start yelling again. I don't see any reason why I have to keep pretending although that's what I've been doing. I've been fooling myself thinking that it's normal, that I can be happy, with women, or anyone else for that matter, coming and going out of my life. You are the only constant in my life," Wilson said, rubbing the back of his neck and wondering how in the world the rest of this conversation was going to go.

"The feeling you have for me is not love. It's caring. And you're reacting to Sam's departure. I'm perfect for you now. Sam's gone, and I'm way more needy than I'm guessing she ever was. You don't think I can live by myself anymore. You don't think I am going to be able to handle my job anymore. You don't think I'm handling this very well. So of course you have feelings for me. They'll go away as soon as I don't need you anymore; as soon as I prove you wrong about all those things."

Wilson looked agape at him. "First of all, I never said you couldn't live by yourself anymore. I said I thought you would need help at least for a little while. I thought you might want that help from someone who actually wants to help you. You know that pool can't be very big.

Secondly, I have never said or even made any indication that I thought you wouldn't be able to handle your job. I have no idea where you came up with that one, other than maybe that's what you think of yourself and you're just putting it off onto me.

Thirdly, I also never said and never thought that you weren't handling this very well. Again, maybe that's what you think of yourself and you're putting it off onto me. You have SDD. Selective Deafness Disorder."

"If you think I'm handling this Ok, then why do you keep lecturing at me? Everything you say comes out like a lecture. I'm not saying I don't want to hear what you have to say. You're right about a lot of things. I'm just saying it doesn't always have to sound like you're telling me what I'm doing wrong or what I should be doing or feeling or whatever. I do appreciate your help; honestly I do," House implored Wilson. "But I don't want to be sermonized. You only think you love me. Wait until you've been home with me a week and then tell me what you REALLY think."

"I think we should both go to the disability support group meeting together tonight. And I think we should keep going together. I know the difference between 'thinking' I love someone and 'actually' loving someone. I didn't up until recently, but I do now. And I can wait with you until you see it too." Wilson stated with finality, as if there was no alternative. "I just said what I meant."

"Are you mad or do you want me to stay?" Wilson added.

"Yes and yes." House replied, looking away from Wilson out the window.

"I wasn't planning on leaving anyway. Oh, wait, yeah, I have to go get your laptop and journals. What should I tell Cuddy if I see her? You know I probably will."

"Wait – you mean you haven't actually been talking about me to her behind my back!" House smirked. "You can't say anything without my approval anyway. She already knows everything I want her to know. All she cares about is when and if I'm coming back to work. As far as the 'when', I have no idea. As far as the 'if', the answer is hell yes. But she doesn't have to know that yet. Let her squirm. She can't hire anyone to replace me until I resign or she fires me, and neither one of those things has happened yet."

"I haven't talked to Cuddy. I don't think your fellows have, either. I think they're walking on eggshells around her anyway. They would never say anything. Cuddy has tried to pry stuff out of me but I promise I haven't said anything. I'll be back with your stuff. You have your iPod. Do you want your harmonica or a guitar or something? I could stop by your place and pick up your acoustic guitar if you want it."

"No, somebody'll steal it while I'm out of the room. But you can bring my harmonicas. Thanks. And you know Cuddy will keep trying to pry stuff out of you. I want her guessing. Since she hasn't got the nerve to just come to me and have an actual honest conversation, she has no choice but to keep goading you. It would be more fun for me if I knew you told her to go screw herself, but you're too nice for that. So just don't say anything. If you have to talk, tell her you're ethically obligated not to share confidential patient information with anyone else. She'd believe that coming from you, and you're completely in the clear."

"Well, I live for making sure you have fun. I'll see ya later, alligator," Wilson said.

"After awhile, crocodile," replied House, still gazing dreamily out the window. _I'd give anything just for some sunshine and fresh air,_ he thought.

Maureen stopped by after Wilson left. She'd learned that she'd have a more productive conversation with House if she skipped the generalities and went straight for the specific information she was after. She learned quickly not to ask "How are things going?" because the chances of getting an honest answer were not very good that way. Better to be specific and ask for specifics. She opened with, "Do you feel like you're making any progress in physical therapy?" Good yes no question.

And instead of saying something meaningless just to get rid of her, which he would have done if the question had been a dumb one, he answered honestly. "I'm having good days and bad days. It seems like I take one step forward and two steps back – literally. I fell hard on my face yesterday because I got impulsive and tried to stand up before Ruth was ready for me to do that. I lost my balance. I wasn't hurt besides just a banged up face and an even more banged up body. Since I wasn't hurt, she showed me how to get myself back in the wheel chair and after my nose stopped bleeding, we climbed back up on the horse again. Only this time I listened to her and stood up in the parallel bars the right way."

Maureen said "Wow! You stood up in the parallel bars! That's pretty good progress, isn't it?"

House said "You just ignored the first six sentences of what I said."

"No I didn't. Everyone falls. The important thing is what you do after you fall. You could have laid there and made a big deal out of it, but you didn't. You let her get ice for your bloody nose and you let her show you how to get back up again. What's even more impressive is that you went on and finished what you set out to do in your therapy session yesterday. You stood up anyway. All of those things show progress."

"Yeah, well, I don't feel so peachy today, but I did do pretty good today in therapy and thanks for the nice words."

"Are you coming to tonight's meeting?" Maureen asked.

"Planning on it. My date's coming too," House quipped. "I don't think I could keep him away."

"Good. I wanted to bring something up about the meetings. Your former roommate, Tim, has been asking about you. I think it's just a friendly interest in how you're doing. We are not allowed to give out information about one patient to other patients so nobody has said anything. We're just saying we can't give out any information. You should be prepared for whatever he wants to ask you."

"Thanks. I'll deal with him if I have to. I'm not really a people person so don't expect much out of me. I'm just going mostly because Wilson thinks I should. I don't always listen to him and when I don't I have to pay the price for it. I might be getting a little bit out of the meetings but just don't expect me to be all chummy with anyone. To be honest with you, all I wanna do is do my therapy and do anything else I have to do to get out of here. That seems to include going to these meetings, so I go."

Maureen had a pretty good idea, just from his body language, that something else was really bothering him.

"I appreciate your honesty, Dr. House. You look bothered by something else. What else is on your mind?" Another good question. He could say "Nothing," or he could actually say what was on his mind. Her chances of getting a helpful answer improved when she pointed out that he did look bothered by something else.

"I don't know how to say it. It's very weird. Something weird happened. It hit me like a ton of bricks and I don't know how to react," House answered.

"Feel like going into details?" Maureen asked.

"Nope."

When Wilson returned with House's laptop, journals and harmonicas two hours later, there was a distinct odor of cigarette smoke all over him. "Since you don't smoke, and you've been gone two hours, I'm guessing you went to a strip club for lunch?" asked House.

"Nope. I got all your stuff, got your mail, answered your phone messages, and cleaned out your fridge. Some of that stuff was pretty nasty. Then I made a last little trip to my place to pick up some clothes and get my mail. Sam ambushed me there. She was waiting in her car. It wasn't really any big deal; all she did was yell at me about some meaningless stuff. She's apparently started smoking again and her car was full of it. I walked by her car to ask her what she was doing there, and when she opened her car door all the smoke came whooshing out all over me. All I did was stand there, listen to her yelling for a few minutes, and then I turned around and left. I don't know if she's going back there or not. She still has a key so who knows. The divorce hearing is in a couple of weeks and I'm fine with it."

"Oh. Sorry about you and Sam. I really am."

"What's done is done. I'm not sorry about it. It was for the best." Wilson said very matter-of-factly. Wilson delivered the items House wanted. House immediately turned on the laptop and downloaded his email from work. There were hundreds of new messages; most of them from other physicians seeking diagnostic consults. This was excellent because it meant that none of these other physicians knew he was ill. So maybe Cuddy wasn't as much of a blabbermouth or gossip monger as he thought. This also meant that Wilson really hadn't gossiped about him to Cuddy. If he had, then all these referrals would have dried up because half the physicians on the Eastern Seaboard would know by now that he was out on medical leave. Chances were pretty good that they'd even know why, and Cuddy would probably have made him out to be even worse off than he already was. Cuddy would probably think it would be a huge feather in her cap, having a physically disabled physician who was still a patient in the hospital and yet accepting referrals. Had she known and blabbed anything, it would have backfired on her, because other physicians with an ounce of common courtesy would hold off on their referrals if they'd known how sick he was, until he was physically able to return to work. Cuddy could never keep her trap shut. On the other hand, he still needed to be careful with what he said or typed. _The delete button is such a wonderfully easy tool,_ thought House. Select All – Delete. All gone.

"Anything interesting in there?" inquired Wilson.

"If you mean were there any messages from Cuddy, then no."

"You want to talk about…."Wilson started. House cut him off with a quick "No."


	35. Bite me

After lunch, House had no time to even consider going back to bed for a nap before Dr. O'Malley showed up. Wilson was eager to see him. House just rolled his eyes. He knew what was coming.

"How is your therapy going?"

"Well, seeing as I recently fell flat on my face just trying to stand up, I think the answer is pretty obvious," House retorted.

O'Malley ignored the barb. "They have you standing in the parallel bars. Good!"

O'Malley inspected and palpated the incision. House was pleasantly surprised to find that the incision itself was not tender anymore. "Any pain or tenderness at the incision?" O'Malley asked. "I don't mean muscular pain. I know about that. I mean is there any localized pain right in the incision?"

"Not unless you're….ouch…. digging at it like that!" House complained while O'Malley removed a few stray sutures. House began to squirm in the chair.

Wilson asked if House could begin gait training yet. "Gait training? What am I, a dog or something?" House shot at Wilson. House's mood was rapidly turning south; much farther south than it had been in awhile. He was tired, crabby, stiff, sore, and his patience had run out. House looked at Wilson while talking to O'Malley. "He wants to know if you want me walking yet. I need to pee."

"You can start walking, but he's right. It'll involve some gait training. I don't want you bearing any weight on your right let yet. I'll talk to your physiatrist. How is your urination? You peeing Ok?"

"You're asking how my pee is? You can get that from my lab results in my chart. You can leave now unless you want tire tracks on your feet. I really have to pee NOW."

"Ok, ok. See you later," O'Malley said to House's back as Wilson pushed House to the bathroom. Ordinarily Wilson would have let House move on his own, but the words and body language coming from House were loud and clear. He needed to get to the bathroom post haste, as fast as possible. The fastest way to get there was by Wilson pushing him and for once, House was glad for the help.

Once in the bathroom with the door closed, House breathlessly and frantically pulled his gown out of the way and tried to pee in a hand-held urinal. "Oh god, it's not coming out. Thanks to that idiot, I've been holding it too long. I have to stand!" Getting more frantic, House grabbed the bars on either side of the stall with both hands and jerked himself up to a standing position. Remembering his earlier face plant, he remembered to plant his left foot underneath him to bear a good bit of the weight. Then he had another problem. With both hands holding on to the grab bars, he had no way to make sure Little Greg didn't pee all over the walls and the floor. All he could do was hope he had good aim. He closed his eyes and sighed deeply as the stream hit the porcelain. Wilson stood behind him in close proximity, ready to support him if he lost his balance. He looked pretty shaky but House managed without any help.

"Thank you," House breathed to Wilson. "Oh my god, thank you, thank you…."

"Ok, buddy. I got the chair. Just sit back down slowly," Wilson said gently.

"I know, I know! Make sure the brakes are locked. I got this. Let me do it myself."

House remembered what Ruth told him. "_When you can't see the wheel chair because you're standing with your back to it, ask someone else to make sure the brakes are locked_." After double checking to ensure that they were, House grabbed both arms of the wheel chair and lowered himself back into it slowly. Wilson got a wet wash towel for House and they made their way back to House's bed.

"I know I have therapy again in a little while but I'm completely knackered. I need to go to bed. Would you mind moving my journals over here where I can reach them?" House asked Wilson in a very uncharacteristically (and very nice to hear) conciliatory tone of voice. "I'm sorry for snapping at everyone but I've really had it for now." House moved himself painfully back into bed.

"Wait. Did you really just say what I think you said?" Wilson said while getting House's journals for him, playfully mimicking the way House asked that very same question earlier.

"Yes, and you'd better record it for posterity because the chances of you ever hearing me say 'I'm sorry' again are almost nil."

"Love you," Wilson tossed over his shoulder as he made ready to step out of House's room and let House get some shut eye.

"Bite me," House retorted, playfully.

"Maybe later," Wilson called out from the hallway.


	36. Walking

Rehab chapter 36

**A/N – I'm specifically not mentioning much about House's pain in this story because in my story, his pain is better managed than it is on the show. In real life a patient like House would never have been kept on Vicodin for years like he was because Vicodin is not an ideal solution for long term pain management. In real life, a patient like House would probably be on a combination of a narcotic like fentanyl or a non-narcotic like gabapentin, and something like a TENS unit or acupuncture or some other non-medication pain relieving method. With good pain management, pain stops being the focus of everything – and I want that fact to be apparent in my story. **

When Ruth came to get him for his afternoon PT session, she was pleasantly surprised to find him already making his way down to the PT room. She met him in the hallway as he was rolling himself to PT, with Wilson walking alongside.

"Thought I'd save you the trouble of coming to get me. I wasn't sure what time I was scheduled for, but I figured you had to be ready for me. So here I am. O'Malley said he wants me up walking in the parallel bars, but no weight bearing on the right leg of course," House said.

"I know. I've talked to your physiatrist already. The plan is to start you today with a walker in the parallel bars. I still don't want you walking, even using the walker, without me or a nurse because your balance is still not quite what it will be in a day or so," Ruth replied.

Rolling up to the parallel bars, House parked both wheel chair brakes. "Whoa, wait a bit. Don't jump ahead. Remember, we have to do the strength training exercises first," Ruth reminded him.

Back to the weights they went. House put himself through the paces with the two pound weights in both arms and a two pound weight wrap around his left ankle. Just when he thought he was through with the weights, Ruth interjected "Not done yet. Up until now, we've only been doing passive range of motion on your right leg. Time for you to take up the slack a little bit now."

Nerves already mostly shot to hell today, House misinterpreted her last sentence and fired back, "What the hell do you mean by that? You think I've been slacking off?"

"Oh no! Poor choice of words, I guess. You're not slacking off. In fact you're doing very well. I just meant it is time for you to start doing active range of motion exercises with your right leg – but just in a modified way. Sorry about the misunderstanding," Ruth said apologetically. "In fact I should have told you this right from the very beginning today, and that was my oversight. I apologize. From here on out, we'll do all of your strength training exercises on the platform. There's no point in doing some of the exercises in the wheel chair, some on the platform, and the rest in the parallel bars – that's too much. Once you come into the room, just come right over and transfer to the platform and we'll do all your strength training on the platform. You can rest a little on the platform before we go to the parallel bars."

"Long as I'm not being blamed for anything…" House replied.

"You're not. Let's get over onto the platform and I'll show you what I want you to do with your right leg," Ruth said.

House was getting pretty adept at transferring himself from one seat to another seat independently, and was proud to show that he didn't need any help with that maneuver. Once he was sitting on the platform, Ruth put a pillow down on the platform and helped him maneuver his legs up so that he was lying down on his back on the padded platform. With the pillow under his head, she placed a pillow under his right knee to support it in a slightly flexed position. "This will help in doing range of motion on your knee," she said, pointing to the pillow.

"Could've fooled me," House replied, panting slightly.

"What is your pain on the pain scale now? I noticed you're panting. Are you in pain or are you nervous, or both?" Ruth asked.

"It was a zero when I got into this room but it's about a four now. I think it's due more to nerves than anything else. I have no idea what you're going to do to me."

"Ok, I'll get a heating pad for you. No reason to make this any worse than it needs to be. How is it any other time? When you're at rest, or when you're rolling around in the chair, how is it?" Ruth said.

"Fine." Wilson looked askance at House. "Actually, it is fine. I'm telling the truth," House continued as he saw Wilson's look. "I know I'm maxed out on the fentanyl but it's actually doing the job. We finally hit on a dose that works all the time. I hurt when I start moving after I've been still for awhile, but it goes away quickly, and the worst that ever seems to get is about a three or a four. It goes down to a zero or maybe a one within a few minutes, even if I continue moving. Most of the time, I'm actually at a zero."

"Good! Sounds like Dr. Anderson's protocol is working. I like it when Dr. Anderson gets involved with a patient, because his pain management protocol works." With a heating pad draped across his right thigh, Ruth went on to explain what she wanted House to do. "I want you to flex and extend your right foot ten times, just like you do with your other extremities. The difference is we won't use any weights on that leg. When you're finished with the first rep, rest for a minute and then do another rep."

Ruth watched as House did what she asked him to do. She wanted to let the heat from the heating pad soak into his thigh before attempting any range of motion with his knee.

"To do range of motion on your knee, I want a pillow or two under your knee so that it's flexed like it is now. Then raise your lower leg as far as you can off the platform and lower it again. Don't be surprised if you can only lift it an inch or so. With most of the quad muscle gone, the smaller muscles will try to compensate but they can't do as good a job as your quad could. Do that five times if you can. If you can't do it five times, just do it as many times as you can. We'll call that one rep. Then rest one minute, and do another rep. Take a few deep breaths before you start. Unfortunately this is going to be painful. To a certain extent, you're going to have to bear with the pain. If it gets too bad, stop and tell me."

House swallowed, furrowed his brows and began, slowly. Beads of sweat began to stand out on his forehead. A look of fierce concentration came over his face. He focused all of his attention on his right leg. As he balled his fists up, the right foot came up off of the platform about half an inch. He allowed it to fall back onto the platform and repeated the exercise three times. His shirt was saturated with perspiration and Wilson got a cool wet washrag for his forehead. House closed his eyes and took in a few deep lungfuls of air. Then, with the same clenched eyes and focused determination, he repeated the three-lift rep, only this time instead of clenching his fists he decided it might be more helpful if he used each hand on either side of his thigh. The pillow under his knee was already doing a good job supporting his thigh but he had to find something more useful to do with his hands besides clenching the life out of them.

Gasping with relief when the exercise was finished, House just laid there like a limp rag doll. "Good job! This is why we're going to do all the strength training on the platform. You can just stay there and rest for a little while before we go over to the parallel bars," Ruth said. "Your PT sessions are an hour each time, and we've already accomplished the first goal for this afternoon – active range of motion on your right leg. You've been here fifteen minutes. You can rest fifteen minutes and we'll spend the last thirty minutes in the parallel bars. Keep the heating pad on your thigh while you're lying down."

House was enjoying the endorphin rush, the high from the exercise, too much to think of a smart-ass comeback. Wilson kept sponging the sweat off his forehead. "Stop doing that! You're ruining my high!" House said goofily. "Just let me enjoy this – I feel like I just had a huge orgasm."

"TMI!" laughed Ruth. "Too much information!"

Fifteen minutes later, Ruth woke a sleeping House up. "Wakey wakey, big guy. Time for the parallel bars. Do you need a hand getting up into the chair?"

"If you don't mind," House replied without a hint of sarcasm.

She offered him a hand and he grabbed it, pulling himself up to a sitting position. He was able to take over from there, sliding his legs off the platform and transferring himself into the wheel chair.

He rolled over and parked his wheel chair in between the parallel bars. After double checking to be sure the brakes were locked, he looked at Ruth expectantly. Ruth produced a shiny new walker, one that had been customized to fit him properly. Unlike the standard walker he had in his room, that he had been using to help transfer into the wheel chair, this one was properly customized for his height. The hand grips on this one were cushioned better. This one had a neat bright blue paint job, unlike the standard one in his room that was just a plain dull gray color.

Ruth placed the walker directly in front of him and fastened the gait belt firmly around his waist.

"Take both legs off of the wheel chair so they don't swing back and trip you up." House did as she asked. Ruth walked up to him from the other end of the parallel bars so that she was standing directly in front of him. She motioned for the physical therapy aide to come over and stand directly behind House's wheel chair in case more help was needed.

"Now scoot forward to the edge of the chair. I'll have a hold of you using the gait belt, but I'm not pulling on you. She's standing right behind your chair in case we need her. Plant your left foot on the floor underneath you. Take a look in front of you to make sure there are no obstacles in your way or if there are, make sure you know where they are so you don't trip over them. When you get out of the parallel bars, you're going to have to maneuver the walker, and later crutches and a cane, around obstacles. You can't always be looking down or you'll lose your balance, so it's important to look forward and survey the path ahead. Push up with both hands on the sides of the wheel chair. As you stand up, move your hands one at a time to the walker. When you're standing up completely, I want you standing up straight, with all your weight on your left leg and just using your hands on the walker for balance."

House stood up slowly, exactly as Ruth instructed. Unable to believe he was actually standing up on his own, or at least relatively so, he looked down nervously at his feet. "Don't look down! Look straight at me. I want you standing straight up, not hunched over like that. That's an excellent way to lose your balance. Look straight at me," Ruth commanded.

House looked at her like a whipped puppy. "That's better. I just want you standing up straight. You're not in trouble," Ruth assured him.

Ruth continued, "Good deal. I'll stay in front of you, but I'm going to let go of the gait belt. You're safe. We're not going to let you fall. She's behind you with the wheel chair. Now move the walker forward just a few inches, and hop once. You're in the parallel bars for safety while you learn to use the walker. You can grab onto the parallel bars if you need to. The wheel chair is right behind you. She's moving it forward as you move forward with the walker. If you need to sit down, tell her to lock the brakes and then you can sit down."

House looked down again and moved the walker too far forward. Before he could try to hop, Ruth stopped him and corrected him. She pushed the walker back where it needed to be, just a few inches in front of him. "The whole point is not to look down or bend your back. If you push the walker too far forward like that, you're going to bend and then fall. Most people are afraid of falling so they look at their feet when they push the walker forward. That's what you're doing and you need to stop that. Keep your head up, your back straight, and don't look at the ground when you're moving the walker. Look ahead for obstacles, but don't look straight down if you can avoid it. That's it. Just push the walker forward an inch or two. Then hop once."

House did as she asked. One small hop for House, one giant leap for Ruth. "That's great! You want to hop into the walker, so your hips wind up right in between the handles of the walker. Your hands, holding on to the handles of the walker, will be parallel to your hips and you'll be standing straight up. That's a good first step. Let's try another. You were holding your right foot up off the ground, and that's fine. This time I want you to touch your right foot to the ground. You don't have to hold your right foot up off the ground. You can put your foot on the ground; just don't bear any weight on your right foot."

One hop at a time, House made it a few feet down the parallel bars using the walker. The strain of keeping his right foot up off the ground that first step was almost unbearable, but once he found he was able to put his right foot on the ground and still not bear any weight on it, it was quite a relief and the strained remaining thigh muscles actually began to relax. House kept plugging along. Ruth said "You made it halfway down the parallel bars. That's awesome! You don't have to go all the way," but by the time she got that sentence out, he was already three quarters of the way to the end of the parallel bars.

"But I'm already almost there…" he huffed and puffed. "Let me finish this." Wilson admired his more-than-just-friend more and more, with every step House took. Once he began a task, House was never one to give up on it, no matter how difficult the task was to complete. As loudly verbal as House could be, he was never nasty or sarcastic to anyone who actually had anything helpful or intelligent to say. House reserved his most sarcastic comments for the stupidest people; the real idiots. Take Cuddy for example. True, she was no idiot, but the only real conversations Cuddy ever had with House were centered around flirting or else denying him some consent she thought he needed to perform some procedure. Instead of delegating responsibilities to her employees and then trusting them to do their jobs independently, she decided that House needed her to meddle in everything he did professionally. To House, that meant two things. One, that she needed him in her life and the only way to keep him in her life was to exert control over everything he did at work. And two, she didn't trust him enough to do his job independent of her meddling. Wilson realized this was why House and Cuddy would never, could never be anything more to each other than just flirtacious acquaintances.

Wilson realized with a start that this was why House liked Ruth so much. House turned into a different guy when Ruth was around. No sarcastic remarks, no calling her an idiot, nothing like that. He flirted with Ruth every bit as much as he flirted with everyone else, but the difference between Cuddy and Ruth was that Ruth treated him respectfully and addressed him intelligently and in a respectful, straightforward manner. Ruth respected him enough to let him have some say-so in his therapy, which meant a lot to House.

As he approached the end of the parallel bars, Ruth moved around to his side and the aide remained behind him with the wheel chair. House was very tired, but at the same time he was so proud of himself that he had made it all the way down the parallel bars without anyone having to physically hold him up. He was standing tall but at this point, pride was holding him up more than physical strength. As much as he hated to do so, physically, he had reached the end of his ability to remain independently upright, and needed to sit down. Softly he asked the aide right behind him to be sure that the wheel chair brakes were locked. Once he was assured that they were, he looked at Ruth expectantly again. "It's ok, you can sit. You're done anyway", Ruth said. "Before you sit, make sure you can feel the seat of the wheel chair against the back of your legs. If you can't feel the seat of the chair, the chair isn't close enough and you need to either back up or have someone push the chair up closer. Put both hands on the arm rests of the chair, and support yourself that way as you ease down into the chair. Don't plop into it if you can avoid it."

House gently eased his rear into the chair exactly the way Ruth advised him to. He was still breathing a bit too heavily for Ruth's liking. The look in Ruth's eyes changed from pride to concern and Wilson noticed it too. "House, are you breathing Ok?" Wilson asked. "Dr. House, you're pretty short of breath. Let's put you on some oxygen." Ruth went for the oxygen tank and when she returned with the tank and the nasal prongs, House slapped her hand out of the way. "I don't need that. I just need to catch my breath. This is more exercise than I've had in a long time. I'm fine. I just need to rest."

"Ok, but I want to keep you here until I'm sure you're Ok. You don't look Ok to me," Ruth said, her concern growing. Wilson said, "Maybe you'd better page respiratory therapy and have them take a look at him."

"Or maybe you all better stop talking about me like I'm not here. I told you, I'm fine! I'm just tired!" House insisted, and began to roll himself back up to his room.

Ruth went after House. She pulled out her cell phone and paged respiratory therapy, and called House's nurse too. "I'm taking Dr. House back to his room. He's really short of breath. Can you take a look at him when we get back?"

House was not making much progress rolling his wheel chair. He wasn't really all that short of breath anymore; the problem was the wheel chair was getting harder and harder to roll. It felt like he was towing several hundred pounds behind him. He turned his head and found that yes, he was. Ruth was holding on to the chair and trying to stop him. Wilson wasn't too far behind.

"Are you sure you're Ok?" Ruth asked, staring at him intently like she was a pulmonologist all of a sudden.

"YES! I'm breathing better. Ever seen a runner pant at the end of a race? I was out of breath because I'm out of shape. I'm fine. This is going to happen until I get back in shape. Now let me alone so I can get back to my soap."

"I've just never seen you breathe like this before and you work out hard during every session. If you feel Ok, that's fine, but I still think you should let respiratory therapy check you out," Ruth said as she let go of his wheel chair.

"Thank you! Stop being such a freaking mother hen, both of you. If letting respiratory therapy check me out will get you both off my back, literally, then sure, go ahead."

When the party of three got back to House's room, sure enough, a respiratory therapist was waiting with a pulse oximeter to check House's oxygen saturation. House obediently stuck his finger out as she put the thing on his finger. She listened to his lungs as the oximeter measured his oxygen saturation. His respiratory rate was already down to a satisfactory 20 breaths per minute. His lungs were clear and his oxygen saturation was a healthy 95%. Not perfect, but normal for a smoker.

Everyone calmed down. "See! I know what I'm talking about. Now go away," House commanded.


	37. Tim

Rehab chapter 37

**A/N – Some may see House as being a bit out of character when he stands his ground against Tim in this chapter, but really I don't think he is. Remember House never finished any decent rehab on the show, and probably never really came to grips with his altered body image. My whole intent for taking House all the way through rehab is to show how a person comes to accept and deal with an altered body image. House can still be snarky and even egomaniacal, and yet accept his disability and deal with it. Next chapter will have a lot more Wilson and some juicy Cuddy gossip, too.**

After his productive session in PT today, where he was finally allowed back on his feet again even if, technically, it was just one foot, House had one more point to prove tonight. One more task to accomplish.

He had heard through the patient grapevine that some of the other patients didn't want to have anything to do with him, and, in fact, had started complaining to Maureen, because they felt he was getting "special treatment" from Ruth and the nurses. Someone was spreading the word that House had gotten special favors, including getting a private room when most patients had semi-private rooms and having the football player visit. House had a pretty good idea who that "someone" was. He was going to tonight's disability support group meeting with a purpose – to call that someone out on the carpet and prove them wrong.

Right after his exhausting session in the parallel bars, House went right to bed and right to sleep. He slept through dinner. He specifically wanted to be at least somewhat rested before tonight's meeting. He'd asked Wilson to wake him in time to get cleaned up and dressed. Tonight he was going to wear long pants for the first time since he was admitted – the incision was healed well enough and the infection was gone, so it was no longer painful to have cloth rubbing against the incision.

Wilson woke House up at the appointed time and went home long enough to shower, shave and change into something nice. When he came back to the hospital, House was dressed in his usual attire – a faded Old School tee shirt, loose-fitting jeans and his good Nikes. Other than the wheel chair and the leaner frame, Wilson proudly realized he didn't look any different than before his surgery. _Damn, he's hot!_ thought Wilson. "Stop drooling over me. Let's go," said House.

House rolled himself to the meeting. Wilson walked alongside House's chair, so they could talk. "You sure you're prepared for this?" Wilson asked. "Yep" came the confident answer from the man in the chair.

Laura called the meeting to order with her usual introduction for new patients, followed by brief introductions from everyone else in attendance. House specifically saved his introduction until everyone else had given theirs. Once everyone had given their names, he was the last one to speak and a certain few people (Laura and Maureen, among others) looked at him with expectation. He was so full of adrenaline that if he could, he'd have marched right up to that podium. As it was, he was going to have to say what he came to say from his wheel chair. He rolled up confidently to the front of the room.

"Ok, so I guess it's my turn. I'm House. I need to speak to a core group of you all," he said with his usual direct-and-to-the-point style of public speaking. "You know who you are and so do I," he said without publicly identifying anyone but looking straight at Tim. "I'm not going to beat around the bush. You all think because I'm a doctor that I get special privileges here. Shut up," he said to Tim as Tim began to open his mouth. "I'm not done talking." As Maureen looked at him as if to warn him, he said, "Don't worry. I'm not mad and I'm not going to be nasty. I am direct and to the point. I don't owe anyone any explanations about why I do the things I do, why I got the room I have or why Randall Cunningham came to visit. It was a nice thing for Mr. Cunningham to do and that's all there is to that. I'm not a chummy-chummy kind of guy. I don't warm up to strangers. I don't expect any of you to warm up to me. But we're all crammed in here like sardines and I guess we have to deal with each other come hell or high water. Nobody WANTS to be here, least of all me. I have to do whatever is required to be able to function independently in my home and at my job, and that's the only reason I'm here. Everyone lies and that includes me. If you want to keep lying about me, be prepared for payback. That's all I have to say."

House rolled back to his former position in the room full of temporarily stunned patients, next to Wilson. Wilson smiled and patted him on the back. "Oh, just wait," House murmured.

The noise in the room suddenly grew about a hundred-fold. Tim shot out "I need to say something!" and Laura took control of the room. "Dr. House, you have some valid points. I imagine people would like a chance to respond. Let's be civil about it. Tim, come on up here."

Tim rolled up to the front of the room. "I'm not so chicken-hearted that I can't identify who I'm speaking to. Yeah, I'm talking to you, House. All you've done since you got here is whine. We're sick of hearing it." Then Tim looked around the room, apparently looking for support. Instead of sensing support from anyone, all he got were confused looks from people as if they were saying _"I have no idea what you're talking about."_

Tim continued, somewhat chastened. "Ok, so I'm sick of it. You have it better than a lot of people in this room. You get treatment reserved for a king, but there are people here a lot worse off than you that don't get that kind of treatment," he said as he rolled back to his former place in the room.

Laura resumed her place at the podium. "This conversation needs to occur in private. I think maybe we'd better continue this conversation outside, between the two parties. I think we ought to adjourn tonight's meeting." Immediately, the blind man spoke up.

"I don't. Tim, I have no idea what you're talking about. Why did you say he got special treatment? I've been around him in PT and passed him a few times in the hall. I don't know the guy at all other than the few times we've spoken, and it was just to say "hi" in passing. I've never heard the guy whining. I know Randall Cunningham was here, but I doubt he was here just to visit one patient. Like House said, we're all here to do our thing so we can get back to our lives. What's your problem?"

"What's my problem? What's my problem?" yelled Tim. "Tim, stop yelling. If you can't speak in a civil tone of voice then the meeting is officially over and I'll call security if I have to," Maureen said firmly.

"My problem is," Tim continued in a more civil tone of voice, "that you're right, I need to take this outside with him."

Tim angrily rolled outside of the classroom. Maureen followed him. House and Wilson followed Maureen.

As Wilson closed the door, all four parties were outside the classroom in the hallway.

"What is your problem with me?" House demanded.

"You're a great big fucking baby. That's my problem with you," Tim started crying. "I can't do this in the hallway. Let's go," Tim motioned to House as Tim started rolling back to his room. "Just you and me."

"No, I'm going with him," Wilson announced. "Wilson, let them handle it themselves," Maureen pleaded. "They need to handle this themselves."

House immediately took off in the chair for Tim's room, rolling faster than Tim as though it were a race that he needed to win. House was already in Tim's room when Tim got there. House felt like that gave him some kind of advantage. "You're an idiot," House announced.

"That must be your go-to insult. You can't think of anything else to say, so you call everyone idiots."

"Idiots are people who say idiotic things. That term actually does apply to a lot of people, but not everyone. I call a spade a spade. I call it like I see it."

"If I could deck you now, you'd be flat out on the floor and I'd be in jail on an assault charge. But I can't," Tim said and then House interrupted him.

"So you're going to slay me with words? Gonna have to try harder than calling me a 'fucking baby'."

"You brought pot into the room and got away with it," Tim countered.

"Still doesn't make me a fucking baby. You stated a fact, but your fact is wrong. I did not bring pot into the room. The fact is, someone brought pot into the room, and you imbibed just like I did. Still doesn't make me a 'fucking baby'."

"You got a private room because you sulled up and cried like a baby, had a temper tantrum, until someone finally gave in and got you a private room," Tim countered again.

"Still doesn't make me a 'fucking baby'. Again you stated a fact and you got it wrong. I don't owe anyone any explanations but out of the goodness of my heart, I will explain. I got a private room for two reasons. One, I asked for one, and two, my infection was nasty enough that it would have spread to you through any open sores you might have had. You should be glad I got a private room."

"You act like you got it so fucking bad. Well guess what. There are a lot of patients here worse off than you. So you got a crippled leg. Well guess what. I got two of 'em. You can see. That man in the meeting can't. You still have your good looks. Laura lost hers in the fire. Lots of people have it worse off than you," Tim fired back.

"Hey, I'm not going to debate who's more disabled than who. That's YOUR problem, not mine. I said it to you before, I said it in the meeting a few minutes ago and I'll say it again. I'm just here to get myself better so I can go home and function independently. I could care less how disabled you or anyone else here is."

Tim started bawling again.

"I think that's the crux of the problem. You're the one with the inferiority complex, not me. This isn't my problem, so leave me out of it," House stated, and rolled out of Tim's room.

Back in Houseland again, Wilson was sitting in the recliner watching an episode of Family Guy when House rolled back into his room. "Well, what happened?" asked Wilson. "Moron has an inferiority complex. I need a freakin' drink," House replied wearily. "Bourbon, straight up. With another shot of bourbon."


	38. Intrigue

Rehab chapter 38

**A/N – I threw in a couple of characters from seasons two and three just because I needed to add some intrigue to Cuddy's character. They were patients of the week and if you remember them from the show, they're completely out of character here. Standard disclaimer applies that this is just a work of fiction for fun, and I'm making no profit from it. All credits for the characters from the show go to David Shore etc… I just own my own OCs.**

**If you're a Huddy fan, you're probably not reading this story. If you're a Huddy and you're reading this story anyway, thank you, but you should skip this chapter. **

Next morning, House's physiatrist announced a discharge planning meeting for House. House hadn't seen too much of Dr. Smith. In fact, he didn't remember seeing Dr. Smith at all since the day he was moved out of ICU to the rehab floor and that was only for a few minutes after his dialysis catheter was removed.

Ronald Major, one of House's nurses, came in to House's room before breakfast to let House know that there would be a discharge planning meeting today at about 1 pm, after his morning PT session. House and Wilson were invited. Maureen, John (from occupational therapy), Ruth and Dr. Smith would be there as well.

"Who the hell is Dr. Smith?" came the voice from under the covers.

"Your physiatrist. He's the head of the rehab program here."

"Could've fooled me. Not like he sees his patients regularly, or ever." House said sarcastically. House wasn't one to see patients if he could avoid it, either.

"Do I have to come?" House continued.

"No, but I'd recommend it. Your friend should come too," Ronald said.

"Oh, that'll just make his day."

Wilson walked in and heard House's remark. "What'll make my day?"

"They want to talk about me. They're calling it a discharge planning meeting. They want to kick me out, and they want to tell me all about it. You too," House smiled.

"I was wondering when they were going to get around to that. It's high time. It's a good thing, House. They're not trying to 'kick you out'. You know they just want to be sure everything is in order when it's really time to discharge you."

"I know what a discharge planning meeting is, moron. I was kidding. Seriously, though, it's at 1 pm. They want you and me there."

"Sounds good to me. Hey, I have some juicy PPTH gossip for you." Wilson waited until Ronald left in order to continue the revelation about the palace intrigue. "Your girlfriend's stepping out on you."

"She may have the world's best fun bags, but 'girlfriend'? Come on now. I wouldn't go that far. Patty and Selma do make for pretty good eye candy, though that's about all there is to her." House said with a wink. "What's up?"

"Remember that guy Cuddy's been sleeping with? Name's John Kelley – he's in the Marines."

"Yeah – get on with it."

"Well she's also doing her 'handy'man, Alfredo."

"How the hell do you know that?" House demanded.

"Alfredo showed up in the ER at PPTH yesterday with a broken leg after he fell off a ladder at her house."

"Yeah, so? He's a handyman. They climb on ladders."

"I said he fell off a ladder. I didn't say he was climbing a ladder," Wilson continued. "John came by her house, looking for a nooner I guess. Alfredo had been working on her roof, but he wasn't on her roof when John came over. Alfredo must have been giving Cuddy a little afternoon delight. The ladder was still leaning up against the house, not far from her bedroom window. When John showed up, Alfredo leaned out the window to grab the ladder and climb down. He got down the first couple of rungs and then fell."

"How do you know all this?" House asked with obvious delight.

"That's what John told the police. Cuddy called 911. When the police and paramedics showed up, John was there with Cuddy. He said Cuddy told the cops and the paramedics that Alfredo was patching a hole in her roof and fell off of her roof. John told the police that Alfredo crawled out of her bedroom window and fell off her ladder, not off the roof."

"Ooohh, goody! Tell me more, tell me more!" House grinned.

"So Alfredo shows up in our ER with broken bones. You ain't heard the worst of it yet. In the course of routine blood testing, they found his white blood cell count elevated. Yeah, it's gonna be elevated because of the broken bones, but it was higher than they thought it should be. So they cultured a few things to see if he had any infections. Turns out he has the clap. Guess who else has it too. Hope you haven't slept with her lately."

"Haven't slept with her since that one time in college. Oh my god, this is good! I've been trying to blackmail that woman. Finally I have some good ammunition!" House was absolutely elated.

"She's on penicillin now. It's a reportable infection, and Alfredo spilled the beans about all his partners. Cuddy must have given it to John too. John tested positive. He's allergic to penicillin and guess how we found out? When Cuddy tested positive for the clap, John got tested too. He was seen in the clinic at PPTH. John didn't know he was allergic to penicillin. They prescribed penicillin for him in the clinic and he got his prescription filled right there. Marco filled it for him. He took his first dose right at the pharmacy in front of Marco. Fifteen minutes later while he was sitting in his car in the parking lot at PPTH, he went into anaphylactic shock. Someone found him and they dragged him back into the ER. After they revived him and he told them about his Chlamydia diagnosis and recent penicillin prescription, they started the routine questioning about his sexual partners and so forth. You know the clinic records aren't computerized yet, so the ER had no way of knowing he had just been seen in the clinic until John told them. John had no problem telling everyone in the ER that Cuddy gave him the clap in the first place. So now the ER staff knows that Cuddy was two-timing John and that Cuddy has the clap. Wanna bet on how long it is before other guys turn up positive too?"

House laughed. "You know how good I am at hacking email accounts. Maybe I should work my magic and warn the medical staff. I think she's worked her way through most of them by now."

"Yeah, well, has Cuddy been over here recently?" Wilson asked.

"Nope. I'm not holding my breath waiting for her, either." House replied.

"If she knows that you know, she's gonna know HOW you know too. If you're still interested in her fun bags, I would clam up about it if she shows up. I know how hard it is for you to keep your nose out of her business, and maybe it was a mistake for me to tell you but hey, I knew that would make your day. And you'd have found out about it anyway even if I hadn't told you. I can't keep juicy gossip in any more than you can."

Grinning, House rubbed his hands together excitedly. "You just made my day! Wanna go for a spin?"

"Hell yeah! Oh, you mean go somewhere in your wheel chair? I thought you meant something else… yeah, sure, whatever. Let's go. Maybe we can go for the other kind of spin later on, whaddya say?" Wilson said with a grin.

"Only you would want to get it on with a guy who's only had one good shower in three weeks."

"Now we're in your territory," Wilson countered. "Shut up and get in the damn chair."

Wilson noticed the old plain gray walker was gone. House's new, custom-fit bright blue walker had taken its place. "Wonder what they'd say if I managed to hobble down to PT in this thing," House mused out loud as he used the walker to stand up and balance himself while transferring into the wheel chair.

"I think they'd take it away from you. Sit down in the damn chair," Wilson smirked.

"Yes mommy. Where are we going? Don't push so fast." House said as Wilson pushed the chair.

"I'm not pushing you too fast. I brought breakfast in from Mickey's. We're going outside in the hospital's courtyard to eat it. I told the nurses to page me when Ruth wants you in PT. We have time to eat. We need to talk," Wilson said.

"Oh, it's gonna be one of those Lifetime moments… I just know it…. Go get the Kleenex," House quipped.

"No, we just need to talk, and if you think Tim has fodder for gossip now, it might get a whole lot worse if he hears any of this. It's just not something I want everybody to know about but I think some of it might come out during the discharge planning meeting. I wanted you and me to have a chance to talk privately first."

"Do I have any say-so in this?" House asked.

"Yeah, you don't have to say anything, but I think you're probably going to want to."

House and Wilson found a nice table outside in the courtyard. House was wearing comfortably warm clothing and had a blanket draped over his lap. Wilson got House a hot cup of coffee and then went to his car for the bags of food from Mickey's. He had doughnuts, bagels and cream cheese. All three of which were on House's list of favorite breakfast foods to mooch off of Wilson. The hospital did not permit smoking anywhere on the premises, but they were outside and House hadn't had a smoke in weeks. Wilson snuck a smoke in for House and the two men started cracking each other up, Wilson telling dirty jokes and House enjoying the clandestine cigarette, the porno humor, and the juicy gossip.

After awhile, Wilson changed the subject. _Oh no, here it comes,_ thought House.

"Hey, I'm sorry for springing that on you the other day. You know what I'm talking about."

"You mean the whole 'I love you' crap?" House replied.

"Yeah. I mean, I do and all, but that wasn't the best way to say it. I mean, I don't want to ruin our friendship over this. You haven't told me to fuck myself and go to hell yet so I guess I'm not too far off base in assuming you feel the same way?" Wilson asked tentatively. Wilson had always had feelings for House. He made it more masculine, more like a "bromance", by being a prankster and a willing participant in House's pranks as well. He made it seem, publicly, like they were just good buddies. If House was straight, and Wilson publicly acknowledged that his feelings for House were more than just a "bromance", their friendship might just permanently blow up. The subject really never came up in public before because Wilson was terrified of what would happen if House didn't feel the same way. House believed in monogamy. Whether it was hetero or homo in nature didn't matter to House, as long as it was monogamous. House was not averse to saying that, and had said that publicly numerous times.

House had never said anything publicly acknowledging any kind of an attraction to Wilson because if monogamy was something to be valued, as he felt it was, then when he and Stacy were together, he owed it to Stacy to work at that relationship. And Wilson would have been bound by the same obligation to try and make his relationship with Sam work. Showing any kind of attraction to Wilson while both men were still in other relationships would have negated his professed belief in monogamy. Now that Stacy and Sam were out of the picture, House knew it was time to make it work with Wilson.

"Then we need to make this work," House stated matter-of-factly. "I know you're in it with me for now because of all this decrepitude," and House made a sweeping motion over his legs and the wheel chair, "but I need to know you're in it for the long haul and for more reasons than JUST all this. I need to know you're in it with me because you need me, not because I need you. I need to know you're still going to need me even after I ditch this wheel chair, after I stop needing someone to help me all the time, after I go back to work."

"House, I already said it before but I'll gladly say it again. I'm in it with you for a lifetime. And I need to know that YOU'RE in it for the long haul, and you're not going to feel any different the next time Cuddy tries to seduce you or you meet a cute hooker at the off-track betting parlor. I know I have a hard enough time keeping commitments in relationships and I screw things up just as much as anyone else; but if you're willing to try, then so am I."

Having at least begun to acknowledge their feelings for each other, both felt better prepared to come back up after breakfast for the discharge planning meeting. House had a pretty good idea that that wasn't all they wanted to talk about, either, especially after last night's disability support group.

Ruth and John were already in Dr. Smith's office when House and Wilson arrived for the meeting. Maureen joined them shortly thereafter and the meeting got underway. "Dr. House, we have routine discharge planning meetings for all patients at various points in a patient's hospitalization. As a physician you've probably been involved in hundreds of these things," at which point House interrupted. "Nope. I diagnose. Treatment is boring. I'm never involved in discharge planning."

Smith took a deep breath, sighed, and continued. "Then I need to go over the purpose of discharge planning. The whole point is to make sure you're really ready to go home and stay out of the hospital once you are discharged. We go over everything from procuring your medications to modifying the home if need be, to making sure there is enough help at home, to making transportation arrangements or modifying your automobile if need be, to helping with financial arrangements or helping with parking permits or anything you would need. Here's the way things usually progress.

First, you show adequate progress in inpatient physical and occupational therapy. You've done that.

Second, plans are made for follow up physical and any other kind of therapy you need after you go home. You won't need occupational therapy since you've already completed the prescribed occupational therapy treatment. I believe that Ruth has been working on your treatment regimen for outpatient physical therapy. She'll talk with you about that in a bit.

Third, an in-home evaluation is performed to ensure that you will be safe in your home. John will be making a home visit to ensure that you have what you need before discharge – for example, grab bars in the bathroom and anywhere else you need or want them, safe flooring to reduce the risk of falls, ramps if you need them, things of that nature. I just need your permission for the home visit."

"Whatever, yeah, that's fine. Wilson, you can let them in and make sure they don't touch the piano."

"Fourth, continuing psychosocial support will be provided as an outpatient. I understand you've been involved to some degree with the disability support group. Continued participation will be encouraged or if that group doesn't work out for you, Maureen can do one on one support with you when you come in for PT."

"Oh, goody," House snarked.

"I identified four conditions that must be met before discharge. You've more than adequately met the first one. Although I eventually want you using a cane full time, I'm fine with sending you home with a walker and a wheel chair. I anticipate you won't need the wheel chair anymore within a week or two, but we'll make sure you have one at home in case you ever do need it. So the first condition has been met."

"The second condition is that you will agree to continue outpatient physical therapy after discharge. We have a transportation service that can take you to and from physical therapy until you're able to drive."

House's expression was a mixture of resentment and surprise at the second condition. "You can't force me to do that," he said.

"No, but here's the deal. You'll need physical therapy for at least the next year, if not longer. We need to monitor you closely to avoid complications such as arthritis in your hip from your altered gait, and stress-related injury to the remaining muscle. If you don't continue in physical therapy, there is a very big risk that the remaining muscle will atrophy to the point where you lose all use of the remaining muscles. They will form contractures and disable you further. I can't force you to come to outpatient physical therapy but I can strongly encourage you. I'm asking you to agree to attend outpatient physical therapy for at least the next year."

"Hmm… I gotta think about that…." House muttered.

"Done. We'll do it," Wilson affirmed.

House stared daggers at Wilson. "What, you wanna stay locked up here forever? Jeez, do what the man says!" Wilson smiled.

"It'd be easier to 'do what the man says' if I actually SAW 'the man' once in awhile," House countered.

"For God's sake, House. You're the king of absentee medicine. You run the show from your office. You save patients who then leave the hospital asking who Dr. House is. Let this guy do his job." Wilson stated.

Silently and somewhat resentfully, House listened to the rest of what the man had to say.

"The third condition is that an in-home assessment must be completed prior to discharge. Some insurance companies require something like that in order to continue to provide coverage for rehabilitation services. They want to be sure your dwelling is safe, as do we. With your written permission, and here's the form, John will assess your home for accessibility and safety and provide a list of recommendations. We have a list of contractors who can make any modifications you approve, and if any are recommended, the modifications will be done before you're discharged. I'm thinking we'll probably just need grab bars in the bathroom but John will have a more complete list of recommendations after the visit." House, realizing he wasn't going to get out of this meeting very quickly unless he signed the stupid paper, signed it and threw it down in front of Dr. Smith.

"The fourth condition is another one that I can't force you to agree to, but I can strongly encourage compliance with it. Psychosocial support is integral to successfully dealing with a disability. I would strongly encourage you to work with Maureen in whatever she suggests, whether it's continued involvement with our disability support group or some other type of psychosocial support."

House had nothing to say to that. The room was silent for a few minutes. Dr. Smith resumed speaking. "What are your thoughts, Dr. House?"

"Hmm. I'm surprised nobody mentioned what happened in last night's support group meeting. Or maybe you have; maybe you've been talking about it amongst yourselves. I don't know," House ventured.

"I don't know what you're talking about." Dr. Smith replied.

Maureen interjected. "Last night's support group meeting didn't quite go the way it normally does. It wasn't Dr. House's fault, though. Another patient has been spreading rumors and saying inappropriate things. Dr. House addressed it correctly in last night's meeting. The patient who started the gossip reacted inappropriately and I have spoken about this to the other patient. I understand that the other patient and Dr. House have been trying to work out their differences. Dr. House is welcome to come back and other patients in the group have asked me to make sure he feels welcome to come back."

Vindicated, House smiled to himself.

"Getting back on point. You asked me what my thoughts were. I'm trying to manage on Dr. Anderson's pain management protocol. What do you think of long term use of fentanyl? I know what his pain management protocol entails. I just want to hear it from you. Is it safe for me to stay on fentanyl or is there something else I could try?" House said.

"I guess it depends on what kind of time frame we're talking about. By 'long term', if that just means months, then I have no problem keeping you on the current dose of fentanyl if that's working for you. If 'long term' ends up meaning longer than a few months, then I would look into using something like gabapentin and non-medication-related pain relieving therapies like acupressure or massage or something like that. If I were you, I would go along with whatever Dr. Anderson recommends. He determines success by monitoring patient reports of pain. My rehab patients who use Dr. Anderson for pain management typically report that their pain is very well controlled and sometimes kept completely at bay using his treatment recommendations."

"Who will be with you at home?" Smith asked, mindful of semantics. Most patients don't like to be asked "Who will help you at home." The word help sometimes connotates that the patient NEEDS help, when in fact the patient might not agree with that assessment.

House wordlessly crooked a finger at Wilson.

"Do you have any questions for me?" Dr. Smith asked Wilson.

"Yeah, I think we should talk to Maureen now but can we do it in private?" Wilson asked Maureen. "Nothing against you," he said to Dr. Smith, "but we have some stuff we need to talk to her about privately."

"Sure! If you have time now, we can go to my office," Maureen replied.

The discharge planning meeting was adjourned and the trio made their way to Maureen's office. Wilson closed the door and House began talking in his usual direct and to-the-point manner.

"Dr. Smith asked who would be with me at home. Things changed in our lives since I was admitted," House said to Maureen while motioning to include Wilson. "and it's kind of complicated, at least for me."

Maureen gave him a few minutes to continue.

"My girlfriend left me after I was admitted. She didn't love me enough to stay committed to me through all of this. His wife left him too. It's kind of complicated because you all probably know his soon-to-be ex-wife. She's a radiologist here and she worked on my case early on."

House took a deep breath and continued. "There isn't enough room at his place for both of us and his place isn't going to be easy for me to get around in anyway. He and I both want to live together permanently at my place. His ex might be a problem when she finds out this living arrangement is permanent; and she may already know."

House was clearly very uncomfortable talking about his new living arrangement with Maureen, but deep down, he knew that he was going to need Maureen's help to learn to manage at home and resume his life. His deepening relationship with Wilson and the new living arrangements would probably cause considerable speculation and rumors at work. His new disability alone would cause enough speculation at PPTH about his ability to continue to do his job. Once everyone at PPTH knew about his deepening relationship with Wilson, it might just give Cuddy and the board of directors the oomph they needed to get rid of him for good. He desperately needed Wilson in his life and at the same time he desperately did NOT need the added rumors and speculation about his private life that would no doubt spread throughout the hospital like wildfire as soon as Cuddy figured it out.


	39. Pain

"I think that went rather well," Wilson commented as they made their way back to House's room. Lunch was coming soon and, no doubt, it would be something scrumptious like day-old Salisbury steak. House's stomach was already turning at the thought of another bland, tasteless meal.

"Considering that we now know a whole lot more about Cuddy's private life, I'm sure she's going to be chomping at the bit to dig into ours. No wonder the woman hasn't been by to see me. I'm not sure I'd know what to say if she did come," House replied.

"I know you've been in the personnel office like 152 times in the last year, but she can't fire you because of some relationship with me," Wilson said.

"No, but if she finds out we're together, then the next time I throw a cancer case your way, she's going to be the first one in line to accuse me of having a conflict of interest. I don't need that."

"Let's cross that bridge when we come to it. I'm taking a leave of absence anyway. I can afford it and my current cases are reassigned now to other doctors. I already told the board of directors that I'm stepping down as head of oncology. I also told them I'm not taking any more new patients and that I've referred all my existing patients to other oncologists. I haven't told them anything else, but when I go back to work eventually, I'll be joining a group practice."

"WHAT?" House roared.

"You heard me. I'm stepping down as head of oncology. I don't need that kind of pressure and I'm looking forward to my leave of absence."

"Don't just abandon everything because of me. What are all your precious cancer kids going to do without Dr. Jimmy to cry with them?" House retorted. "You can't leave your job."

"House, you're more important to me than my job. You and I both know I make a comfortable living. I can afford to take time off. I can afford to take as much time off as you and I need. I know I'm probably going to owe a ton of alimony and lawyer fees and shit like that when the divorce is finalized but even with that, I can still afford time off."

The two men were back in House's room by now. Wilson got the bedside table and rolled it over in front of House just as the dietary aide arrived with a tray full of indescribable, very unappetizing looking food. Meat is not supposed to be gray.

House pushed the tray aside and turned back to Wilson. "That's not the point. I don't need a full time babysitter. You don't have to quit work."

"Now YOU'RE missing the point. I never said you needed a full time anything, let alone babysitter. I'm stepping down temporarily because I WANT to do that. If we're going to make this relationship work, we have to have time with each other. It's going to be hard enough on you after you go home. We can't make this work if I'm gone when you need me the most. When you're ready to go back to work, I will be too, and I'm going to join a group practice when that time comes. That'll mean a little less pressure on me since I won't have to be on call constantly. I need to do that." Wilson crossed his arms and looked at House with an air of certainty and confidence.

"The deal is done, House. It's time to work on us now."

House looked at him, smiled, and rolled his eyes. "Quit being so melodramatic. And I can't eat this crap. Someone should get a shovel and bury it in the back yard."

"Yeah, and I guess that "someone" means me. It does look pretty nauseating. I'll go get us some Reubens and coffee. See ya in a few," Wilson offered.

House missed his morning PT session because of the discharge planning meeting and the meeting with Maureen immediately after that. Ruth was concerned because he needed that time in PT and two hours in the afternoon would be more than he could manage. At the same time, though, the discharge planning meeting and the follow up meeting with Maureen were important. Before Dr. Smith scheduled the discharge planning meeting, Ruth had originally planned for House to do more strength training exercises in the morning, and then walker training in the afternoon. Since they missed his morning session, she'd do about fifteen minutes of strength training on the platform and about forty five minutes of walker training, but that would leave him without a break between the strength training and the walker training. House would never admit when he'd reached his breaking point, so Ruth would have to watch his body language. Working the whole hour straight through, the pain might be more of a factor today than usual.

Wilson returned to House's room about thirty minutes later with the Reubens and the coffee. House hadn't had such a good lunch in awhile, and took his time to savor the Reuben which was fixed exactly as he liked it – no sauce and no pickles.

But before the sandwich was gone, Ruth came up for his afternoon PT. _Damn, damn, damn,_ House cursed privately. _Now it'll be cold when I get back and so will the coffee and I'll be too tired to enjoy them anyway. Shit._

"Can't this wait a few minutes? I'd like to finish my sandwich and my coffee while they're still hot."

"Sorry, but we already missed an hour of PT this morning," Ruth responded.

"So missing ten more minutes won't matter," House griped.

"They can be reheated when you get back."

"One more thing I don't have any control over. Come on, we might as well get this over with," House said to Wilson. House's mood was definitely going south very quickly. Ruth asked him, before they left for PT, how bad he was hurting. He answered "Just get on with it." She couldn't help but notice his tense posture and the fact that his hands kept clenching and unclenching the arms of the wheel chair. She asked him if he'd had anything for pain today besides the fentanyl patch. He answered "No," and when she asked him if he needed something else now before they went for PT, he said "Again with the questions! Look, we have to do this; let's just go and get it out of the way." Ruth made a quick trip out to the nurse's station to find his nurse. The nurse could not be located, so Ruth asked the secretary to have House's nurse call her in PT as quickly as possible.

In the physical therapy room, House automatically rolled over to the platform to transfer to the platform and do his strength training exercises.

"We're going to have to watch our time today. I was originally going to have you doing all your strength training exercises during the morning PT session, so we could spend the entire afternoon PT session with the walker. Since we missed the morning PT session, I do want you to spend fifteen minutes on the strength training exercises, and then we'll go right to the walker for the last forty five minutes. Since we're not scheduling a break between the strength training exercises and the walker training this afternoon, I need you to tell me when you've had enough. I'll be watching you too, but please say something if you need to stop before the hour is over with. I tried to talk to your nurse about your pain before we left, but she must have been busy with another patient. I left word with the secretary to have your nurse call me down here. You need something else for pain."

House just looked at her like _yeah, sure, whatever. I have to wait an hour every time I press the call light for anything. It's not like they're in any kind of hurry to get to me or anything._

"Would you rather I wait and talk to the nurse first, or do you think we can get started on the platform with the range of motion?" Ruth asked him. _Stupid question._ House shot back "Just get started. The sooner we do this the sooner I can go back and finish my reheated sandwich and coffee and the sooner I can get back to sleep."

Ruth applied the weight bands to his right arm, left arm, and left leg (one at a time) as House silently and resolutely completed the repetitions. Ruth looked at House when he began trying to do active range of motion on his right leg. He was still straining much too much when trying to lift his foot more than a few inches off the ground. He was barely able to lift it an inch or two. His neck veins stood out, he clenched his eyes shut and clenched his mouth as he tried to lift his foot just a few more inches off the ground.

Ruth put her hand on his shoulder to stop him. "An inch or two off the floor is fine. Don't try to do more than you can do. Remember, smaller muscles that don't normally perform that function are trying to take over what a very large strong muscle would normally do. They'll get a little stronger with time. You're doing fine. Take a breather and work on foot mobility instead."

House stopped what he was doing, took some deep breaths, and slowly started to work on active range of motion exercises with his foot. Things weren't adding up, though, to Ruth. He clearly was in pain, and she debated whether or not to just call this session off and take him back to his room.

"How am I going to be able to walk if I can't even lift the damn foot off the ground?" he said to Ruth with his eyes downcast, focusing on his foot exercises. Pain or no pain, he seemed determined to push through this.

"You can lift it an inch or two, and that's enough for now. The strength in the remaining muscles will improve a little, but it takes time. A couple of weeks is not long enough. It might help to change your perspective a little; instead of measuring progress in feet or yards, try measuring it in inches," Ruth said.

A joke immediately popped into Wilson's mind and a smile spread over his face.

As if they could read each other's minds, House immediately caught on. "Yeah, go ahead, say it!" House said slyly. "Later," Wilson replied softly. "She's right. You're trying to push through the pain and I think it's time to stop."

Ruth continued, "I seriously think we need to go back to your room. Pain is trying to tell you it's time to stop."

House had other ideas. Yes, he was hurting. Yes, increased activity was clearly making it hurt worse. But he couldn't imagine anything worse than the pain of just letting it atrophy from disuse. Pain or no pain, he was going to have to get back on his feet again.

After he was finished with the range of motion exercises on his foot, House decided it was time to start walker training. Wilson had brought House's new blue walker over to the PT room. House began the motions of trying to stand with the walker, and Ruth stopped him. "I think you need to stop."

House replied "Well I don't. I need to get back on my feet. You can either help me or you can stand there and watch." He was beyond even trying to be nice now. All he wanted was to get this over with so he could regain his mobility, walk down the hall and prove to Tim and everyone else that he wasn't disabled and maybe then everyone would just leave him the hell alone.

Ruth said "Help it is, then, although I still think you need to stop. If you insist, I'll show you how to stand up safely with the walker."

"When you're in a sitting position like this, on the side of the bed or in a chair, make sure the walker is as close in as you can get it. You don't want to have to reach to grab the hand holds on the walker. You want the walker right in front of you. Make sure you have good shoes on. The Nikes are fine. Make sure both feet are firmly planted flat on the floor. Push up, bearing all your weight on your left foot and support yourself with both hands. If you're in a chair with arms on both sides of the chair, use the chair arms for support until you're standing. If you're in this bed here, use one of the bed rails for support like you do now. If you're in your bed at home or in a chair that has no arms, it's a little trickier. You use the walker for support but don't pull on it. That's what we're going to work on now."

Ruth put the gait belt around him and summoned help from the PT aide. With Ruth on one side and the aide on the other, Ruth instructed him: "Put both hands on the walker. Lean forward a little bit, stand up on your left leg, and use both hands on the walker for support while you stand."

House slammed both hands down on the walker and stood up more quickly than Ruth advised. Ruth looked over at the PT aide. They weren't anticipating the sudden lurch to a standing position and it was a good thing they both had a firm grip on his gait belt.

"Not so fast. You're doing fine, but not so fast. You're going to lose your balance that way," Ruth advised. "Just move the walker ahead an inch or two and then hop into it."

House whirled his head around at her. His eyes just exuded pain and exhaustion, and he fired out "I know how the hell to use a walker! I'm a doctor, for God's sake!" He was becoming more and more agitated as the minutes went by.

Wilson was about to say something; fortunately Ruth locked her eyes onto Wilson's ahead of time and shot him a glance that clearly said "_DON'T SAY A WORD"._ As agitated as House was, he was also becoming increasingly focused on the task he had taken on. Although Ruth told him over and over that he needed to stop, he insisted on stubbornly continuing his way across the room in the walker. He was so focused on the task at hand that he didn't see the looks Ruth and Wilson were sharing with each other. _How do we stop this madness?_

Ruth and the PT aide were walking close by on either side, hands clenched on to the gait belt for safety. If he fell, which was looking more and more likely by the minute because he wasn't paying attention to where he was going, they'd be able to support him and ease him back into the wheel chair. He became like a mad man on a mission, just slamming the walker down and staggering into it without really paying attention to doing it the right way. He was angry. Slam the walker down, stagger forward an inch. _Damn shitting leg. _Slam the walker down, stagger forward another inch. _Stop hurting! _Slam the walker down again, stagger forward a little bit more. _Oh shit, I can't fail now._ Repeat steps.

"Oh shit…" House began to panic. He started shaking violently and Ruth intervened. "Stop. Anne, get the chair. This is madness. Pushing through a little bit of pain is fine but this is insane. I'm calling Dr. Anderson now. We're done with PT."

He really did not want to admit how badly his leg was hurting. All his life he'd been told by his father that boys don't cry. "Push through the pain," he'd been told every time he'd been injured in a football or lacrosse game. "Stop being such a sissy." Guys don't show pain, because that means weakness. House just wanted to go back to his room and for everyone to leave him the hell alone.

But that didn't go quite according to plan. The mouth might be clamped shut, but the body language never lies. When he sat down in the wheel chair, he thought he just might get away with it and maybe everyone would leave him alone for once. Since his therapy session was finished for the afternoon, Ruth called Dr. Anderson and informed him how much pain House was in. Wilson was worried to death. His friend was clearly suffering, but wouldn't admit it, and Wilson was far from powerless to do anything about it. If Ruth hadn't called Anderson when she did, Wilson would have. Wilson practically ran him back to his room, knowing that the sooner he could get a heating pad on House's leg, the sooner he might get some kind of relief. Wilson knew the heating pad wouldn't be enough but it was all he could do for now until Anderson got there. Ruth then tracked down the nurse in another patient's room and insisted the nurse come to check on House. When the nurse arrived in House's room, she walked into a firestorm.

House was in terrible shape. Wilson had just finished getting him back to bed because House was now hurting so badly he couldn't hide it anymore. Wilson was applying the heating pad. Dr. Anderson was there; upon seeing the nurse, he stormed silently out of House's room to have a private conversation with the nurse. "Why in the HELL didn't someone call me before it got this bad? It's your job to assess patients, right? This has been going on a whole lot longer than the hour he was in PT. Someone should have noticed before he left for PT that he was hurting badly, and done something about it."

The nurse nervously answered "He was in PT… I just got here for my shift and I haven't seen him in over an hour… He always says he's fine when we ask him about his pain. Ruth said the pain ramped up in PT and that's why she called you. I'm sorry."

"This can NOT happen again. He needs relief now. How many times have I said that we can't rely solely on what a patient says? Everybody lies! But body language doesn't lie. It's on the pain protocol that non-verbal pain cues have to be assessed too. Maybe I need to inservice all the nurses again about how to assess pain."

The nurse, who was even more nervous now, shot into House's room and began to assess him. Everything was cramping, but the right thigh was worst of all. His legs were shaking and he was perspiring profusely. He couldn't even think straight enough to press the call light for the nurse, or, more likely, didn't bother because he probably thought they wouldn't respond quickly enough anyway. His pride was already shattered and his sanity wasn't too far behind. He just wanted the pain to be over with, by any means necessary.

Dr. Anderson walked back into House's room and said to the nurse, "Don't bother. I'm giving him an epidural. An epidural should not be necessary and wouldn't be necessary had someone called me before it got this bad. He's only been gone an hour. Someone had to have noticed he was in pain before he left for PT. Go get me an epidural tray."

After the nurse left to gather the requested equipment, Anderson turned to House in a softer tone of voice and put his hand gently on House's shoulder. "I'm so sorry. You shouldn't be suffering like this. Thank God Ruth called when she did. Someone should have called me a lot sooner than that. The fentanyl patch alone is obviously not enough to cover the increased pain now that you're walking. Don't let it get you down. We gotta stop this now, so you need an epidural. You need uninterrupted, sound, pain-free sleep. The epidural will be temporary. You need a solid night's sleep, not catnapping between pain spikes. I'm thinking I could do the epidural now, let you sleep solidly all night, then we'll pull the epidural in the morning and try you on gabapentin and a TENS unit in addition to the fentanyl patch. I'll have some other suggestions for you too, in the morning. Obviously you'll miss the morning PT session but pain relief is the priority right now. After I'm sure you don't have another pain spike like this, you can resume PT. Sound like a plan?"

House hid his eyes and quickly nodded "Yes." _Real men don't cry. Suck it up._

The nurse assisted House to lay on his side in the proper position for the epidural. As difficult as it was for Wilson to step back now, he was glad that Anderson was there to help. Wilson wondered whatever happened to this nurse's ability to assess non-verbal pain cues. Assessment skills are a standard part of all nursing education programs. Maybe she needed a refresher. Patients in pain sometimes do try to deny it. That's why non-verbal pain cues are so important to include in a pain assessment.

When the epidural was in place, Anderson started a morphine pump through the epidural. Not a good long term choice, but it would be fine just to get him over the hump tonight. House fell asleep the minute the morphine hit him. _Blessed pain relief!_

Dr. Anderson left explicit written instructions on what was to be done with House overnight.

Pain is to be monitored, assessed and documented at least every hour.

Every time he presses the button to administer another dose on top of the regular hourly infusion he's already getting, it is to be documented on the chart.

If his pain goes above a 2 on the pain scale, on the current dose of morphine and fentanyl, notify me immediately.

Patient is not to be awakened unnecessarily. No blood drawing tonight.

Begin gabapentin 300 mg by mouth once a day in the morning.

Before leaving for the night, Anderson had a few words with Wilson and House together. As tired as House was, this was something Anderson felt he needed to hear.

"Never be ashamed to say you're in pain. It's not a sign of weakness. And it's not your fault either. That's what all this stuff is for and that's the reason I'm on your case. And yes, stress and emotions and stuff like that can make pain worse but even at that, pain is still pain and it's always legitimate even if stress makes it worse. In this case, you got a double whammy of stress and increased activity. So never let anyone think any less of you because you show how much you're hurting. You lost a lot of muscle. There was nerve damage too. Your pain is real, and we can deal with it. If you don't have any questions for me, I can let you sleep and we'll resume this in the morning. I've already instructed the nurses to let you sleep and exactly how I want you monitored tonight. Any questions for me?"

Both men shook their heads _No._ "Alright then, I'll see you in the morning. Good dreams."


	40. The bet

A/N – The research statistics that I quoted for "Thigh Muscle Infarction" seem to be accurate according to what I've read. What I find interesting is that if you go back and see "Three Stories" again, and then look at the available research on thigh muscle infarctions, the character House was probably right in insisting on a conservative approach and then treating further symptoms (heart issues) as they came up. The character was most likely correct when he stated he could get through it without the big surgery. I apologize if this chapter seems like it rambles on and on. I could not find an appropriate cut off point for it.

Alone with House in the room pretty much for the first time all day, Wilson stretched out on the cot and flipped his laptop on. With the light off and the drapes closed, the room was almost pitch black except for the light coming from Wilson's laptop screen and a few small lights coming from some of the equipment on the wall over House's head. Soft murmuring could be heard from the hallway, but the floor was unusually quiet. Even at night when patients are supposed to be sleeping, hospitals are notoriously loud. Tonight, though, everything seemed pretty quiet.

"Don't you have a life?"

Startled out of his reverie, Wilson dropped the laptop. "W-what? Oh, man, you startled me. I thought you were sleeping."

"I said, don't you have a life?"

Wilson picked up his laptop. By the softly glowing light of his laptop screen, Wilson could see House's startlingly bright blue eyes reflected off of the wall of the other side of the room. House was still lying on his left side after the epidural. Right after the epidural, it felt wonderful to be on his side. Makes it a little difficult to talk to people when you can't see them, though.

"Yes, and it's with you," Wilson answered.

"I told you I don't need a babysitter. You don't have to grow roots here, you know. You can go home once in awhile."

"In the words of the famous philosopher William Joel, 'Wherever we're together, that's my home.'" Wilson replied.

"What a load of crap. But since you won't go home, wanna help a cripple turn over so I can actually see you?"

"Did they numb your legs with that epidural? I thought you were just getting morphine," Wilson said, concerned because he knew they didn't give him a numbing agent through the epidural. Wilson knew it was just morphine. House should be able to move his legs and turn himself.

"I know it's just morphine. I can move my legs. I just need help. Everything feels like jello after all that cramping. I'm not hurting but it's kinda hard to move when your muscles feel like pudding."

Wilson got up and gently helped House roll over on to his other side so they could face each other; Wilson in his cot on the right side of House's bed, and House lying on his right side facing Wilson. Pillows were positioned behind House's back, under his head and between his legs. House reveled in the sensation of absolutely no pain whatsoever.

A few moments of silence followed. "Thank you," House said, uncharacteristically.

"Again with the startling statements. You're welcome," Wilson replied.

"What's on the computer? Really steamy porn, I hope."

"Maybe later. Right now I'm looking up Dr. Anderson's background and some stuff about alternative pain relief therapies. Guy's pretty impressive. I'll check out hornyhotmen dot com after you go back to sleep. If you wake up and see my hands under the covers, don't ask."

_Hmm. What comeback shall I choose?_ House thought.

"Horny hot men?" House wondered out loud.

"Well, right now I'm thinking about neurontin, TENS, massage, Dilantin, Tegretol, and Flexeril. But if you give me a moment, I'll stop thinking about everything else except one particular horny hot man very soon."

"I don't know about horny, but hot, yeah, I'll go with that!" House laughed. "Well, yeah, hell, I'm always horny. But with all these narcotics coursing through me, I don't think Little Greg is up to much of anything tonight if you know what I mean."

"Ok, horny hot man. Think about neurontin, TENS, massage, Dilantin, Tegretol and Flexeril then. I've been reading about some of the research Anderson has been involved in. It's really impressive. You know neurontin (Gabapentin) is a seizure medication that has been used effectively to relieve chronic pain; as have Dilantin and Tegretol. They're all very safe for long term use with adequate monitoring. This is really kind of cool. I'd never thought of using seizure medications to control pain. But they work. They're also using Flexeril as part of long term pain management programs for people with muscular disabilities. From the little bit of research I've read so far, it seems like people are able to tolerate the nasty side effects. They're reporting that the pain relief benefit makes the risk of nasty side effects worth taking. There's even some evidence that anti-depressants like Elavil can be used to help manage pain. TENS also sounds promising too. Anderson has published research papers on the use of all of those therapies to relieve pain. It looks like he's also advocated the use of massage therapy, acupressure and acupuncture as adjunct therapies when medication alone doesn't completely eliminate pain. House, this is really promising. I don't know how we lucked into getting Anderson on your case, but hell, you sure got a good one."

The quiet conversation continued. It was nice not to hear laughter, occasional shouting, wheeled carts banging around, that omnipresent voice over the PA system, and all the other chaotic noise that is so prevalent in hospital hallways. It was nice to hear nothing but Wilson's gentle voice and some occasional beeps from Wilson's laptop as he clicked through different web pages.

"Have you been talking to any of my docs?"

"You mean behind your back? No," Wilson replied truthfully.

A few moments of silence followed. Then, "I don't know if I can manage like this," House said softly.

"You mean dealing with chronic pain?"

"Yeah. I don't know how I'm going to deal with this."

Wilson paused. "I'm not used to hearing you talk like this, but it's nice. Listen up. 'WE' will deal with this. Not 'I'. You're not in this alone. From everything I've read so far that Anderson has been involved in, you have a lot of choices. We'll get through this together and you have options."

"I don't want anyone thinking any less of me at work if I'm having a bad day. I need to be on top of my game."

"I'm glad you're thinking about work. That's awesome. The ducklings either suck up to you, admire you, or are too afraid of you to think badly about your diagnostic abilities," Wilson affirmed.

"Yeah, but I'm not talking about them. I pay them to suck up to me, admire me, and think I'm a diagnostic god. They damn well better not think any less of me even on my worst day. I'm talking about everyone else at PPTH; people I don't pay. The janitors, the lunch ladies, idiot clinic patients, and so forth. And Cuddy. I don't want everyone looking at me like a pity case."

A few more moments of silence followed. It would be easy to say the wrong thing. Wilson chose his words carefully. Sometimes silence really is golden.

"'Pity case? Really? How many people have you pissed off at PPTH? At least three quarters of the hospital's employees. They're not too likely to look at you with anything other than the same old dislike for you that they had before all this happened. And all the patients you save. You think they're going to look at you with pity? They'll probably see about as much of you as you see of Dr. Smith, right? They'll either have no idea who you are, they'll think you're a rude jerk, or they'll be kissing your feet with gratitude that you saved their lives. So nothing will change there. And as far as the clinic patients, after they have waited over an hour just to be seen, and you've had the chance to call them an idiot at least once, I doubt that pity is the first emotion they'll express. And those are just the ones who AREN'T high on meth or crack. I wouldn't worry about what the patients or anyone else think."

House was silent a few more minutes.

"And as far as Cuddy goes, I don't know why you would be concerned about a petty woman like that pitying you. Do you know what the latest scuttlebutt is at PPTH? Cuddy's telling certain people that she's glad you're not a patient at PPTH because you'd be driving her staff to quit. Still think she pities you? House, believe me, nobody besides you is going to pity you."

House chuckled softly. "See ya in the morning, Wilson."

Wilson quietly resumed his research on the Internet.

House sighed, took a big drink of water and closed his eyes. With a warped sense of cause and effect, House hoped that if HE closed HIS eyes, it would somehow make Wilson go to sleep faster. Within about fifteen minutes, the only person sleeping was House.

Wilson's mind was focused on one task. Research. He planned on meeting with Dr. Anderson and Dr. Smith in House's presence sometime soon, hopefully within the next day or so. Wilson needed to have a clearer understanding what "long term" meant in relation to House's pain management. A few more weeks? A few months? How long? It was becoming blatantly clear that the disability would be permanent. The remaining question was, "is the pain permanent?"

He Googled * "Thigh Muscle Infarction". A couple of hundred hits came up.

As he scanned the results, several facts began to appear repeatedly. The condition appeared to be rare, as only about one hundred cases appeared to have been reported since 1965.

The majority of reports of thigh muscle infarctions involved older diabetic patients – patients older than House.

Sickle cell anemia can also be a contributing factor.

Among diabetic patients who had had thigh muscle infarctions, the majority did not require any type of surgery to recover. The majority of patients recovered after prolonged bedrest (sometimes several months' duration), pain medication and anticoagulation to thin the blood.

Symptoms usually include: red, warm, swollen and usually hard thigh muscle. Patients reported intense, severe, throbbing pain, managed with oral pain medication. A few required intravenous pain medication. The pain resolved spontaneously when the area healed. There were a few reports indicating that surgical procedures intended to help restore circulation actually may have made the problem worse.

According to the research Wilson uncovered, most of these patients recovered normally with healthy, intact thigh muscle, and did not require any type of surgical intervention.

So House's case was a definite anomaly. If this was any other patient, House would be all over it like white on rice. As far as Wilson was concerned, though, the issue of most concern at this point in time wasn't why it happened. The most important issue at this point was how to help House comply with the pain management and physical therapy regime. House was always the renegade, and Wilson couldn't imagine a world in which House would actually capitulate to another doctor's treatment regimen especially after he went home and wasn't subject to the constrictions of being in the hospital.

Several hours elapsed as Wilson diligently read every word on the relevant web pages he had found. When he was satisfied that he could go to a meeting with House, Anderson and Smith fully prepared, he closed his laptop. Knowing that, with the epidural, House would get a sound night's sleep, Wilson eventually allowed sleep to get the better of him too.

After the best wet dream he'd had in a long time, Wilson stirred awake when he felt a hot wet mess all over his lap. The term "hot mess" had taken on a whole new meaning when he discovered that he hadn't completely closed the laptop before he fell asleep. The laptop apparently remained on all night and his lap truly was a "hot mess". He furtively looked over at House to make sure House was still asleep. He also looked at the clock. Five hours had elapsed since he fell asleep. Other than the hot mess on his lap, he actually felt wonderfully refreshed. House was still out like a light, and at some point the nurses must have been in to help turn him because House was now lying on his left side again. This meant House couldn't see Wilson even if he was awake, so it gave Wilson the opportunity he needed to sneak out unseen, and shower and change.

About an hour later, at 6 am, Wilson walked back in to the room freshly showered, shaven and changed into clean pajamas. House was still sound asleep. House hadn't ever slept uninterrupted this long before, as far as Wilson knew. The plan was to jump back into the cot and go back to sleep, hoping for another hour of sleep before someone would come in and wake both men up. Hopefully House would be none the wiser regarding the condition in which Wilson originally woke up, or else Wilson would never hear the end of it.

Clean and freshly shaven, Wilson had no trouble going back to sleep.

Sure enough, at about seven AM, Dr. Anderson came in to follow up on House's night. Both men were snoring, and Anderson cleared his voice roughly trying to wake them up without startling either of them. When Wilson was awake, he stepped out of House's room with Dr. Anderson and made sure they were out of House's earshot as well.

"How was his night?" Anderson asked. "I specifically do want to talk to you first."

"Actually, it was wonderful. I don't think he's ever slept uninterrupted for that long, even before he got sick. We talked for a long time before he went to sleep and I had a chance to do a lot of research after he fell asleep. Your body of published research is quite impressive."

Anderson replied, "I've been doing this a long time. I subscribe to the idea that pain management is comprehensive. Unlike many medical doctors, I believe that there is as much room for Eastern medicine as there is for Western medicine. If a therapy is available that will help relieve pain for someone safely and there is at least some research to back up its success, then I'm open to it."

Returning to House's room, Anderson and Wilson were both pleased to find that House was still asleep. Anderson gently woke House up.

"Hey sleeping beauty. How was your night? Did you finally get a good night's sleep?"

House blinked heavily trying to clear his vision. He was still somewhere in La La Land, not quite ready to wake up fully yet.

Anderson and Wilson gave him enough time to fully wake up.

"Last I remember, I was on my right side watching you work on your laptop. I guess I did have a good night's sleep. I don't remember turning again and I don't remember anyone turning me. What the hell else did you slip in that epidural besides morphine?"

"Nothing. Remember we said the epidural was temporary? It's time to dial down the morphine. We're going to start gabapentin this morning. We'll dial down the morphine a few hours after you get the first dose of gabapentin. Later this evening we'll start you on Elavil too, and then I'll have the nurses stop the morphine tonight. Tomorrow morning we'll pull the epidural. All you're getting through the epidural is morphine, so you can move your legs. I want you to go to physical therapy today and it's Ok to get you up walking again, even with the epidural in."

Anderson dialed the morphine down as the nurse came in with the first dose of gabapentin. "Gabapentin works well with nerve pain, and it takes about an hour for the effects to start kicking in. It takes about three to four hours to peak. We have room to titrate the gabapentin up if we have to; normally we'd give it two or three times a day but since you recently had the kidney problems, I'm going to start off on once a day. I'll be back in tomorrow morning to pull the epidural and I'll assess things further at that time. See ya later."

After a rather tasteless breakfast of dried up fake scrambled eggs and something called "bacon" that resembled bacon in appearance only, House was already scamming Wilson trying to get him to buy them something tastier for a morning snack and lunch. Ruth called for him to come to physical therapy. An aide came by to help him into the wheel chair, but House was so ready to walk today and get out of the damn chair that he was already IN the chair and out the door when the aide arrived.

"Let me push myself," House said as the aide began to push him. Wilson walked alongside with the walker, pushing the IV pole that was holding the morphine pump. He was hoping for the same good news that House was hoping for – that Ruth would tell him he could ditch the chair altogether today.

"Morphine pump, huh? Is it working for you?" Ruth commented when she saw the getup.

"Marvelously."

"Anesthesia too, or just analgesia?" Ruth asked.

"Analgesia only. I can still feel and move everything. Anderson was already in to see me this morning and he gave me clearance to walk with the epidural in. He already turned the morphine down and they started me on some other stuff. They're planning on pulling the epidural tonight. Let me get out of this thing, please. The seat of this thing is going to be permanently imprinted on my butt."

"Yeah, I think you're ready too. Morphine can cause postural hypotension, so let me know if you feel dizzy or lightheaded when you stand up." Ruth fastened the gait belt and held on lightly while House stood up in the walker, just in case he became dizzy from the morphine.

"Head's clear. Let me stretch a little bit, and we're off to the races," House quipped. A number of patients were doing the same exercise as he was, doing laps around the room in walkers with their physical therapists. "I got $100 says the 100 year old geezer over there doesn't make it four steps."

"Focus! We're going to start off in here and then hit the hallway if you feel ok. There's no need to bring the chair along with us. About every 25 feet in the hallway there is a bench. I want you to go all the way down the hallway to the end and then all the way back here. Sit down at every bench even if you don't think you need to," Ruth said. If you're still going good after we get back here, you can do without the chair during the day and use the walker."

The trio set off on their adventure down the hallway.

House was feeling wonderful, thanks to the morphine. Even though the morphine had been turned down, the gabapentin kicked in when he thought it would and about the only time his leg really hurt was the first time he sat down on one of the benches in the hallway. The bench didn't have any armrests on it and it took a little while to get himself situated where he could sit down without stressing his leg. After he did it the first time, getting back up wasn't so hard and the rest of the trip down the hallway and back went uneventfully. As they passed House's old room, they saw Tim watching something good on TV. Tim saw them too, and asked House in passing if he had a few minutes to talk.

"Not now. I'm in therapy," House called as he tried to make his way as quickly as possible past that room. He DEFINITELY was not in the mood to talk to THIS guy.

"Please? Just a few minutes? I'm really sorry about all that crap I gave you," Tim called out.

House looked at Ruth. "A few minutes. But just a few," Ruth assented.

House crutched his way in with the walker. "Make it quick. My commander in chief is waiting out there for me."

"Way cool, dude, that you're up in the walker now. They let you ditch the chair yet?" Tim asked.

"Yeah. I just found out a little while ago. You have any mobility back yet?" House asked.

"A little. I can move my toes."

"That's good. You might just get all of it back. That's good that you can move your toes. I gotta get back to Ruth. See ya."

Back in the hallway, House thought he saw a familiar face. Some doctor he'd met a long time ago, probably at PPTH. He had no idea what the guy's name was, but the guy was a proctologist. House decided to test his theory that people would pity him.

"Hey!" he called out loudly in the proctologist's direction. "Hey!"

The guy looked back toward House and it took a few minutes for him to register that he knew House. Suddenly: "Greg House! How the hell are ya? Haven't seen you since the NJMA convention years ago. You still playing golf?"

Obviously the guy thought House's injury was a sports injury. He didn't look at House's leg for longer than about three seconds; didn't even comment on House's current condition. It didn't even seem to register with the guy that House was a patient. It was like two colleagues passing each other while rounding on their patients.

Wilson looked at House conspiratorially and held his hand out. House slapped a fifty into Wilson's hand.

"Uh uh," Wilson hissed. House slapped another fifty into his hand.

"That's more like it," Wilson added. "


	41. Paresthesias

Now that House was $100 poorer, Wilson was crowing like the only rooster in a coop full of prime hens. Wilson never won these bets.

House cast a quick glance at Wilson and rolled his eyes. "So you won a bet. Chalk it up as the first AND the last bet you'll win from me."

Ruth looked at House closely. They were about at the end of the hallway, and almost ready to turn around and head back to the PT department. House would probably be the last person to tell her he'd had enough, so she had learned to gauge his endurance by his body language.

His body language told her plenty. He was leaning over the walker instead of standing up straight. Oddly enough, he was putting more weight on the right leg than he should This was probably because of the angle at which he was leaning over the walker. They were about two steps away from the next bench. House did as he was told and sat down on the bench when he reached it.

He had developed an automatic habit of rubbing his thigh every time he sat down anywhere and almost any time he laid down. He did it so often that he stopped thinking about it. Sometimes he did it just because it had become a habit, but most of the time he did it because the nerve damage caused, among other lovely things, a sensation of hot needles being stuck into him. Rubbing the scar and the surrounding skin helped get rid of that sensation for a little while.

He'd learned a lot about his body since this disaster happened, but the thing that came as the biggest surprise so far was that the sensations caused by the nerve damage varied in type and intensity. He had twenty four hours a day, seven days a week to study his own body and his right leg in particular. He was all about objective data, hard data such as numbers and facts that could be studied, memorized, and relied upon. Datum A plus datum B always equals Datum C. Cause and effect. He studied the sensations he felt in his leg and the bothersome thing, the thing that surprised him the most, was that he couldn't figure out the cause and effect. If he always felt "pins and needles" when he did one certain thing, and "pain" when he did another certain thing, or "hot" when he did one thing and "cold" when he did another, he could deal with that. He could learn to anticipate and be better prepared when those sensations hit him out of the blue. He could learn to associate which activities caused which sensation. But none of the sensations he felt in his thigh fell into any sort of a pattern. He never knew when he would feel "pins and needles", hot, cold, pain, itching, or, worst of all, numbness. Many times the scar itched to no end. One would think intermittent numbness would be welcome, but the numbness was limited just to superficial layers of skin. The skin could be completely numb while, at the same time, feeling pain deep under the scar. When the scar and surrounding tissue were numb, he could burn himself on spilled coffee or an overheated laptop computer and not realize it.

Gabapentin is in a class of drugs that are very good at fixing the messed up process behind these irritating sensations. But it takes time. One dose is not enough to fully realize the desired effect. House was quickly losing patience.

Ruth watched him as he sat on the bench rubbing his thigh. House didn't volunteer any information. Wilson was still a few steps behind, thinking what he was going to do with his newfound wealth, and missed the subtle changes in House's demeanor.

"What are you staring at?" House angrily spat out, mistaking Ruth's concern for pity.

"Lift up your pant leg," Ruth asked him.

"You first."

"House, please lift up your pant leg. Is your incision itching? You can't seem to keep your hands off of it. I think that's why you were leaning so much in the walker. You gotta speak up when you're having a problem." Ruth realized that she could make a recording out of that last sentence.

He rolled up his pant leg. She couldn't see the entire scar but what she could see of it was covered in scratch marks, like he'd been scratching it pretty much non-stop.

"It doesn't look infected. Does it itch all the time?"

"What's driving me crazy is the thing never feels just normal. It's either hot, cold, numb, itching, or painful like someone's shocking me with hot wires. Currently, yes, it's itching like mad…" and his voice trailed off while he dug in scratching his scar.

"Wilson, go get some ice. Ice can help stop the itching temporarily. You're on gabapentin, right?"

House looked miserable sitting on that bench vigorously scratching his leg. "Yeah…" he replied.

"Give it time. It'll help."

"It's the first three words of that sentence that I have a problem with," House looked up at her and retorted.

Wilson came back with a small ice pack and House eagerly applied it to the area that was itching the most. When it was sufficiently numb from the ice, he stood up in the walker and started for his room. "Stand up straight in the walker", Ruth had to remind him several times. "Look at the floor ahead of you, but don't look straight down."

When they arrived at his room, Ruth had some advice. "You did well in the walker. If I were you, I would take the pants off and put on a pair of shorts, because they need to keep a close eye on your skin. All that scratching could cause an infection. They make topical anesthetic creams that might help until the gabapentin has a chance to peak. I'll stop by the nurse's station and have your nurse come back and talk to you about that."

Alone in the room with House, Wilson flipped the TV on. ESPN was re-broadcasting a recent Monster Jam from the Family Arena in St. Louis, Missouri, and the second to last race was about to start. Virginia Giant and Stone Crusher were facing off against each other. The winner would go on to face Gravedigger in the last race.

House climbed back into bed. He wasn't so much tired as he was stressed out. The scar had been itching pretty much non stop. He knew the gabapentin (neurontin) would help, and he knew that one dose wasn't enough. He just didn't like the idea of having to wait until he'd achieved a therapeutic drug level. On 100 mg a day, it would take a little longer than if he were able to take more. In his mind, cause should always have an instant effect, so he was not good at waiting. Patience was not one of his virtues. He understood and agreed with not wanting to overdose on gabapentin, but still, waiting for it to have the desired effect was not easy.

Dr. Anderson arrived to take the epidural out. "How's the pain? On a ten scale, how do you rate it?"

"About a three at its worst. I'm having weird sensations in and around my scar."

"Describe," stated Anderson.

"Extreme itching, hot sensations, cold sensations, superficial numbness, or feeling like someone's sticking me with hot electric wires. Those sensations come and go and there's no rhythm to it. It's getting worse by the day. I never know when one of them is going to hit. I know it's from the nerve damage and it's driving me up a wall. When the scar and surrounding tissue are numb, I still feel pain deep in my thigh. The numbness is just in the superficial skin layer."

"That's what anti-seizure medications are good at relieving. They straighten out the messed up sensory nerve conduction. I know you know the pharmacology behind this but I give you the same explanation I give everyone else. Sensory nerve damage means that the brain misinterprets sensory signals. Neurontin, tegretol, and other anti-seizure medications have been shown to help with this. So have various anti-depressant medications," Anderson said.

"I was thinking about that," Wilson added. "What about acupuncture or acupressure? Should we look into that?"

House shot him a look that clearly said _Shut up_.

"Not now. I'll go up on the gabapentin (neurontin) tomorrow if you're still hitting a three on the pain scale. For patients who have or recently had kidney problems, the maximum recommended dose of gabapentin is 300 mg a day. We'll go up to 200 mg tomorrow if need be. First order of business tonight, though, is to pull the epidural."

House dutifully rolled over on his left side, giving Anderson easy access to his back from the right side of the bed. Watching him struggle to pull his right leg up alongside his left in the proper flexed position was difficult for Wilson. Wilson knew better than to jump in and help when help was not requested, though.

Every time a joint bends, muscles on one side of it flex and muscles on the opposite side of it relax. As time went by, House was finding that resting his leg in a straight position was much less painful than resting it in a flexed position. Straightening his leg from a flexed position wasn't painful and wasn't the issue. What he had trouble with was flexing his leg from a straightened position. For example, he found that it was much more painful to sit down from a standing position. Once he was sitting he could relax all muscles and he was fine, but the muscles normally involved in the act of flexing the hip to sit down were now mostly missing.

What this meant, among other things, was that he had to use both hands under his thigh every time he had to flex his right leg even just a tiny bit. The big muscle that would normally do that task automatically just wasn't there anymore, and the surrounding smaller muscles hadn't yet developed sufficient strength to take over that motion. House wasn't sure at this point if they ever would. But he had to try, and he had to do it independently if it killed him.

So Anderson and Wilson both gave him the time and personal space he needed to get his right leg in the proper position alongside its counterpart, and to do it independently.

"You're going to feel a little pulling, and maybe a little burning for just a second," Anderson warned him.

Once he was in the right position, Anderson removed the dressing over the epidural catheter, removed the sutures holding it in place, and pulled the catheter. He scrubbed the area clean with iodine soap and put a band aid over the area.

"Ok, it's out. Activity-wise, you can resume the same level of activity. We're going up on the gabapentin, and it'll still be one dose a day, but from now on you're going to get 200 mg in the evening. You can stay on the current dose of fentanyl too. I'll be back in the morning. Do you have any questions before I go?"

"No," House looked away.

"I do," Wilson added. House just looked irritated. "Considering that we're dealing with chronic nerve damage, have you ever achieved complete and total pain relief in your patients that have had nerve damage? And how long are we looking at this being a problem?"

"Yes to the first question, and honestly, my best answer to the second question is I don't know," Anderson replied.

"At least you're honest about it. I really don't trust what anyone says. It's nothing personal. I just never trust anyone, because it's never about what they say. It's about what they do. I can deal with the answer you gave, though," House replied.

Anderson left. Both guys were very hungry for lunch, and House was not looking forward to yet another tasteless meal. Hospital food isn't gourmet by any stretch of the imagination, and you never know if what you ordered is actually going to be appetizing or not. Heck, House found out the hard way that half the time he didn't even get what he ordered. It was not worth his time to fill out the menu requests every day because he never knew if he was going to get what he asked for or not. So Wilson made another run to the sandwich shop for their good Reubens. He came back with two Reubens, two bags of barbequed potato chips and two large Cokes.

The Monster Jam was still in full swing on TV. Stone Crusher won the semi-final race against Virginia Giant, and the final race between Gravedigger and Stone Crusher was about to start.

House's eyes were glued to the TV set. He missed the storm of emotions flashing in Wilson's eyes. Clearly Wilson was processing something.

Suddenly House screamed, "GIT 'EM! GIT 'EM! GO!" He was screaming at the TV set. Nurses came running in from all directions. Wilson started laughing. "It's alright; we're rooting for Grave Digger!" he explained. "House, stop scaring the shit out of everyone."

When Stone Crusher beat Grave Digger, House threw his cell phone at the TV screen. Fortunately nothing broke.

With nothing else to do to occupy the time until his next PT session, House closed his eyes, trying to nap. Wilson was still processing something, though, and part of the reason House closed his eyes was because he was trying to ignore whatever Wilson was obviously thinking about. Well, score one for Wilson.

Wilson was ready to make a move, and he wasn't too sure how House was going to take it. Wilson's heart broke earlier when he saw House trying to move his leg using both hands and still having a hard time moving it. His heart broke every time he saw House struggling in the walker or struggling with the other tasks that he had trouble with but insisted on doing independently. His heart broke because he was in love. They'd had that discussion. The move he wanted to make would signal that he was taking the relationship up to another level.

Wilson was physically incapable of doing too many things without planning and plotting them out thoroughly; almost obsessively, sometimes. Every pro and every con had to be taken into consideration before acting. It's why he bought a Volvo. He'd researched the safety and crash statistics out the ying-yang before he even went to the first dealership, and then it took weeks of looking at several dealerships before he was ready to commit to the purchase. It was why he was an oncologist. Every patient required lengthy and extensive diagnostic testing to stage whatever kind of cancer they had, and about the same amount of time to determine the correct course of action, and that kind of planning was just up his alley. About the only thing in his life that he ever acted impulsively on was his marriage to Sam. True, he did impulsively blurt out how he felt about House, but in actuality, he'd been thinking about that for a very long time now. There was nothing impulsive about the way he felt about House.

There were so many times recently when Wilson felt that House needed the comfort of physical contact. Not necessarily contact of a sexual nature, at least not yet. But a sincere hug, holding a hand, that kind of thing. The problem was that Wilson couldn't do anything like that without plotting and planning it out days ahead of time, and House was never a touchy-feely kind of guy anyway. Hand holding and hugging SHOULD be impulsive. Those are not things that should have to be planned for ahead of time. But that's exactly what had been going through Wilson's mind for days now. Should he hold House's hand? Should he give House a hug when it looked like he needed one? What kind of person stands back and thinks about those things rather than just doing them, acting in the moment?

"You're processing."

"No I'm not," Wilson answered.

"Yes you are. You're processing so loudly I can hear the gears grinding in your mind. I can only guess it's about me, because who else would it be about?"

"This is going to sound weird."

"It's already sounding weird and you haven't even started."

"It really bugs me not to be able to do anything when you're in pain."

"It bugs me too."

"No, I mean I hate feeling useless. This is really weirding me out but I have to ask. Here goes. Would you just haul off and belt me if I held your hand or gave you a hug sometimes?" Wilson cringed, waiting for the barb he thought sure was coming.

House was silent for a minute, trying to suppress laughter. Wilson, becoming more and more embarrassed as the laughter threatened to burst forth, said "Why are you laughing?"

"Come over here."

Wilson closed the door and quietly approached House's bed.

"Look at these guns. I've been working my upper body so hard these last few weeks that I could knock an elephant out if I had to. If I wanted to belt you, I'd have done it when you announced out loud that you loved me. I'm not going to belt you, moron," House breathed huskily into Wilson's ear, and then he reached up and socked Wilson in the shoulder. "Everybody lies."

"Ow! You idiot!" Wilson recoiled from the bro-punch. Laughing, he pounced right back in and playfully punched House in the shoulder too. A wrestling match would have been the natural next step in the foreplay, but that was kind of out of the question. In the light roughhousing, Wilson stepped on one of his loose shoelaces and fell across the top of House's bed. House took advantage of the position, grabbed Wilson in a headlock and nibbled roughly on Wilson's ear. "I haven't had dessert yet," he growled softly.

_Oh God, the moment's here and we're in the middle of a hospital,_ thought Wilson.

"Ow! Hey Tyson, that hurts!" Wilson laughed.

"Shut up or I start biting something else," House breathed roughly.

"Well then I guess I'll tell you about the new neighbor and their dog and my last patient and what Cuddy said and oh, your mail is piling up and should I bring another cell phone charger in and do you want your DVD player and if this is what it takes to get you to bite me somewhere else I'll never shut up and on and on and on…"


	42. Overnight Pass

**A/N – I'm sorry about the delay. My computer has been acting up for a long time and finally crashed last week. It took days to get it operational again. Thank God for good backups. Here goes Chapter 42.**

They had to cut the roughhousing short. First, Wilson didn't want to accidentally hurt House. Secondly, a hospital is the worst place to get it on. Hospital policy at Princeton General specifically allowed intimate contact with a patient if the other person was the patient's spouse and the contact was consensual, but it didn't say anything about intimate contact with a patient when the patient was not married to the other person. The risk of spreading infection was always there. Not necessarily from sexual contact but just from the fact that all hospitals harbor very dangerous germs. House would actually be at more risk of contracting something from Wilson just because Wilson currently had more contact with other people than House did. They had to be careful about spreading infection and they had to be careful about maintaining privacy. It was just too much work and worry to be intimate in the hospital, so the roughhousing stopped before it went too far. Neither of them really wanted to stop it, but both knew the dangers of letting it go too far in the hospital.

So before they reached the point of no return, House broke the headlock he had on Wilson, but the eye sex just got steamier.

"Hey Romeo, I brought something for you." Wilson grabbed his duffle bag and pulled out a pair of House's black jeans, and an Eagles rock tee shirt.

"What's this for?"

"I have a surprise for you. I talked to Dr. Smith this morning and he ok'd an overnight pass for you. We're going home tonight. I'll fix dinner after we get home."

"Home home? Or to your place?"

"Home home. To your home, or our home, whatever you want to call it. Home home. Thought you'd enjoy the change of scenery."

"Hell yeah!" House exclaimed.

"You have to be able to get up the few steps in front of the apartment. We'll bring the chair, but you'll have to be able to make it up those steps with the walker," Wilson reminded him.

"I can do it."

"I know you can. Dr. Smith already okayed it, knowing you'd have to navigate up the steps. But I want to make sure it's ok with Ruth too. I am not going to pick your ass up from off of the concrete if you fall."

"I'm going home anyway, so don't bother calling Ruth."

"House, I know you can make it too, but you haven't done any steps in therapy yet. I think we should touch base with Ruth first."

"You wouldn't have it any other way."

Wilson called the PT department. Ruth was on her way out, desperately trying to avoid the phone. Another therapist answered the phone. Instead of taking a message, she called Ruth over to the phone. _NOOO,_ mouthed Ruth. _I'm going home!_

The therapist wordlessly handed her the phone anyway.

"Hi, this is Ruth. How can I help you?"

"Ruth, it's Wilson. Dr. Smith ok'd an overnight pass for House to go home. He'll have to negotiate a few steps to get into his apartment. I know John was planning on doing the home assessment and we want to be there when he gets there tomorrow. I was wondering if you had time to check him out on the steps tonight in the PT department?"

Ruth gripped the phone tightly. _NOOO – not tonight – I want to go home!_ she was thinking. Inwardly, she cringed at the thought of having to stay another hour. Outwardly, she said "I think I can manage that. Tell him to be here within the next thirty minutes." In reality, she knew that if Dr. Smith granted them an overnight pass for tonight, House was going to go home if they had to drag him home in a stretcher. As impulsive as he could be with his own health, she knew he would tackle the steps at home even if he wasn't ready and most likely would wind up right back in the emergency room with seriously broken bones as a result. It would be much better for all involved if she stayed the extra time tonight to have him try the steps in the PT room. If he couldn't handle the steps in the PT room, she'd be able to put the brakes on any plans to let him go home tonight and keep him from a potentially catastrophic fall at home.

Thirty minutes later on the nose, House and Wilson showed up in the PT department. Ruth had to admit to herself yet again not to let him push himself to do more than he was physically capable of. He looked pretty darn good standing tall in that walker, but things might change pretty quickly once he got halfway up the steps in the PT room.

The PT room was outfitted with a set of stairs that went nowhere. They were used to train patients with canes, walkers and crutches on how to safely ascend and descend stairs. The difference was that the floor here was padded, there were only a few steps, and there were plenty of people around to help steady a falling patient, so a fall here wouldn't necessarily result in a serious injury.

Ruth wasn't about to deliberately squash his desire to prove his independence to everyone. She just wanted to make sure he'd be safe and wouldn't do anything impulsive on the stairs.

As he made his way over to the stairs, Wilson automatically went over with him. "Uh uh," Ruth interjected. "This is a solo act. There's no room for you to stand next to him on the stairs, and you can't be behind him because if he falls he'll take both of you out. He has to be able to do this independently."

House looked at her for direction. "That's a good first step," Ruth said. "Not being impulsive about it."

"When you get to the base of the stairs, pay attention to what side the stair rail is on. Never use stairs if there is no rail. Fold your walker, and move it to the side opposite the stair rail. You'll have the folded walker in one hand for support, and the other hand holding on to the stair rail."

House did as she advised.

"Good job. Lift the walker up to the first step and lead with your left leg. Going up the steps, lead with your left leg since it bears all the weight. The point is to spread your weight between your left hand on the walker, right hand on the stair rail, and your left leg. Take the steps one at a time. Even if you think you're doing fine, never try to take more than one step at a time. Go up one step, stop and rest. Take it one step at a time until you get to the top. For now, I'll follow behind you. If you can handle the steps ok the first time, we'll do it again without anyone behind you."

House slowly but confidently made his way up two steps. "I just have two steps to handle at home," he said. "There are four steps here. How do I turn around without having to finish the last two steps?"

"For now, try to make it up the last two steps. If you can handle four steps, you can handle two."

House took a deep breath, sighed, rolled his eyes, and slowly made it up the top two steps. _Four god damn steps,_ House thought. _I feel like I climbed Mount Everest._ Ruth thought he looked pretty strong and stable, so once he got to the top of the four steps, she told him how to safely turn himself around on the upper landing. "Good! Going down the steps, move the walker down one step. Using the stair rail and the walker for support on each side, lead with your right foot and bear all your weight on the left. I know it sounds weird, but once you do it the first time it'll make sense. That way you keep all the weight off your right foot."

House looked at her like she was from Mars, but he figured if he was ever going to pass this test he needed to do what she told him. Then he could go home and do whatever the hell he damn well pleased. He was very quickly becoming resentful of the fact that he felt like a three year old, being trained like a baby again on how to handle stairs that he had been safely negotiating on his own for over forty years. Maybe he should just sit on his rear and go up and down the damn steps like a freakin' baby.

He swallowed his pride, again, and did as she told him. He really had no choice because she clearly wasn't going to declare him safe to handle steps at home until he could prove he could handle the steps here.

As he reached the foot of the stairs, he snidely asked "Do I pass, Mommy?"

"Not yet. Now do them again without me standing behind you."

"This is ridiculous! I don't need you telling me I can't go home! I'm not a baby. I just did the stairs. You didn't have to help. I'm not doing this again. I'm going home tonight." House angrily made his way to the PT department door.

"I can't give you clearance to go home until I'm sure you can handle the steps without someone standing behind you," Ruth said.

"And I'm not driving you home until I'm sure you're not going to wind up flat on your ass on the concrete," Wilson added.

It's never easy to lose even one iota of one's independence. Being at the mercy of someone else, having your fate in someone else's hands, is hell. House slammed the walker down in frustration and collapsed in a fit of anger on the nearest chair. "Stay away from me!" he growled as Wilson came over to comfort him.

"I'm fine." His standard two-word phrase. Nothing more, and nothing less. In his case, "I'm fine" actually meant "Stay away from me. I don't need two fucking babysitters. I don't need someone to tell me I can't run up and down the stairs anymore. I don't need someone to pat me on the head and tell me what a good boy I was because I made it up and down four dumb steps without falling on my ass. I need you to let me alone and let me go home. I did what you asked me to do. Now let me alone."

All of that was condensed within the two word phrase, "I'm fine."

A few minutes went by as he composed himself and got his anger under control. He looked up and reluctantly realized that no matter what he did here, he would lose this battle. Nobody was going to let him go anywhere unless he did what Teacher said. It wasn't that he didn't think he could handle the steps. It was that he had to do this with an expectant audience. He was tired of continuously having to fight uphill battles, feeling like each task accomplished was some kind of huge test that he had to win.

Silently and morosely, he made his way back to the stairs and made a dramatic point of slamming the walker down on each step as he made his way up and then down the four steps, one step at a time, looking at Ruth at each step as if to say "See, I'm not someone's baby."

Ruth could understand where he was coming from. Her only goal was to make sure he could navigate steps independently and safely, without someone having to stand behind him. But she could see his point. It's never easy for an adult to have to go back and re-reach a milestone they originally moved past when they were three years old. House just couldn't see past his frustration enough to realize that there was common sense behind her insistence that he prove he could move safely and independently. Far better for the pride to suffer a small blow from frustration than for the body to suffer one much worse from a fall down the stairs.

Instead of reacting to his childish outburst, she saw it for what it was, simply a way of expressing normal frustration. Acknowledging that he'd done what he needed to do, Ruth called Dr. Smith and let him know House was safe on the stairs and safe to go home overnight.

"Hope you have a wonderful night tonight. You deserve it. Have fun, and I'll see you back here tomorrow," she said, adding "Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

House just looked at her with a sly grin returning to his face. "I'll be a good boy tonight – and by good I mean bad; very, very bad."

Wilson and House made their way out of the PT department with Ruth's blessing, toward House's room. Knowing that they were going home tonight, to what would be THEIR home, House's demeanor became decidedly more upbeat. He didn't care that he had to come back here tomorrow. True, his caregivers would most likely look at this as a test to see how well he could function at home. However, even knowing this was one more test he had to pass, the joy of simply being able to spend one night out of the hospital with the man who was rapidly becoming his very significant other made it so very worthwhile.

The whole time Wilson spent packing an overnight bag for House, House damn near talked his head off. "We gotta go to Hunan's and get some of that moo shu pork. I need some beer too. I know there's nothing in that fridge unless you stocked up. Did you grocery shop? I know you're going to tell me I can't have alcohol but I'm choosing this night not to listen to you."

"You're what?" Wilson asked, laughing. "Did you seriously just say you're choosing this night not to listen to me? As if you listen to me any other time."

House went on like a youngster writing a letter to Santa. "I want beer. I want chocolate ice cream. I want Chinese. I want eggs and sausage and bacon and toast and coffee for breakfast in the morning. I want some of that good Glenfiddych single malt scotch too…" and Wilson interrupted "HEY!"

"Ok, well, a guy can't help dreaming, right? So no Glenfiddych I guess. Damn narcotics. But I do want some Guinness. I'm not kidding. Get some Guinness. We can make a beer run on the way home. Oh, and pizza too."

Laughing harder, Wilson said "Slow down, House. The fridge is stocked. I'm not telling you what it's stocked with. It's just stocked, ok? Forget the food. 'I want, I want, I want.' Well, all *I* want is you."

House said softly, almost under his breath, "Back at ya, bro."

On their way out, past the nurse's station, House was being pushed in the wheel chair by his favorite nurse's aide. Wilson walked alongside, carrying the suitcase and the walker. They stopped at the nurse's station intending to pick up the medications that House would need that night including a new fentanyl patch in case the previous one fell off. House and Wilson were both dismayed to find out that a new policy had just been enacted preventing nurses from dispensing pre-packaged individual doses of medications to patients who were leaving hospital property even on a pass. The new policy required patients to be given written prescriptions for their medications to have them filled at a pharmacy, or else the prescriptions could be called in to a pharmacy. Nevertheless, the patient still had to stop by a pharmacy on the way home to get the needed meds. This was viewed as yet another pain-in-the-butt policy. Patients going home on an overnight pass would most likely only need one or possibly two doses of any of their medications; it would be much easier and much more cost-efficient if the nurse could just dispense the few doses the patient would need. Instead, patients now had to go to an outside pharmacy and pay for a full bottle of medication when most likely they would only need one or two doses from the bottle. Oh, the joys of medical red tape.

So while Wilson and the nurse were juggling House's prescriptions for the night, House sat in the wheel chair getting more and more anxious to just GET THE HELL OUT OF THERE! The aide could see how eager he was to get going, and intervened. "I think I'm going to take him on down to the door. Give me the overnight bag and the walker. I can handle that stuff and him too. We can get some fresh air down by the door while you all are taking care of the meds." House cracked, "Thank you! Now push fast! Maybe we can outrun them and blow this joint ourselves!"

Cursing the fact that he didn't know about the new medication policy until they were on their way out the door, Wilson stood there at the nurse's station fuming while waiting for Dr. Smith to write the necessary prescriptions. As House's significant other, Wilson not in any position to write scrips for House. As easy as it would have been to just write the damn scrips himself, it wasn't worth risking his DEA prescribing status and perhaps even his medical license to do something that was now against regs. So he stood there at the nurse's station drumming his fingers on the window as Smith wrote up the scrips. All the while, House and the aide were pretty much racing to the front door of the hospital.

Upon arriving at the front door to the hospital, the aide propped the door open and stopped. "Hey, I have a surprise for you," she said cunningly, scanning the horizon with her beady brown eyes as if looking for the boogey man to pop up from out of nowhere. "You can't tell anyone," she said, knowing she had just the right audience for such a statement. "I been dyin' for one of these all day. They won't let us smoke anywhere on hospital grounds anymore. It sucks. Stupid policies change every other day and they never tell us until after they're already changed and we're getting in trouble for something we didn't even know we could get in trouble for. Anyway, you like Camels?" she asked him as she pulled out two cigarettes and a lighter.

"Hell, you don't have to ask me. Gimme," he said, scanning their immediate surroundings just as furtively as she was. "I won't say anything," he said, looking back at her, puffing greedily on the contraband cigarette. "Gotta protect my sources!"

Suddenly Wilson appeared, heading for the doorway. "Hurry up, stash it!" House whispered fiercely to the aide as he threw his own cigarette as far out onto the parking lot as he could, through the propped-open door. Unfortunately the wind didn't carry the lit cigarette butt very far, and as soon as Wilson got close enough the heavy scent of burning unfiltered Camels hit him. House looked up at Wilson innocently, but the smoke scent was already all over House's clothing and hair. "Just shut up and wait. I'll pull the car up. If you light up again, better smoke it fast, 'cause you're not smoking those crappy stinking things in my car."

Within minutes, the bright, clean Volvo rolled up to the curb in front of the hospital. By the time Wilson had the passenger-side door open, House hopped from the wheel chair to the car seat and used both hands to ease his right leg into the car. Wilson popped the overnight bag, the wheel chair and the walker into the trunk. House rolled the window down. The wind blowing through what was left of his hair felt glorious as the car moved out and Princeton General got smaller and smaller in the rear view mirror.


	43. Getting their Freaks On

Getting Their Freak On

**Music to listen to while reading this chapter – "Black Water" by the Doobie Brothers. I imagine Wilson and House heading home for his overnight pass with the car windows** **down, the wind gently blowing, and this song blasting through the car speakers. Additionally…Any references to Guinness products or any other products for that matter are just for fun. I love all Guinness products and I have nothing against their low-alcohol beer or anyone else's for that matter.**

**This chapter is easily the most M rated thing I've ever written. Warning for explicit, graphic Hilson sex. Gosh yes, this was a blast to write! It's finally time for House and Wilson to get their freak on! And yes, in reality this is very often the reason why long term rehab patients go home for overnight passes. **

"**Hoosegow" is a Midwestern US slang term for jail. Yes, this chapter is full of sex, crimes and misdemeanors! Guys will be guys!**

As the dirty old walls of Princeton General got smaller and smaller in the rear view mirror, House was enjoying the surrounding scenery like a blind man who'd had his sight restored. He craned his neck around looking at all the pedestrians and fellow automobile occupants, trying to find anyone suitably mock-worthy. There was the college student with long purple spiked hair and what looked like a pierced toe on her left foot; House noticed the apparently pierced toe because of the fact that she was wearing bright orange open-toed sandals. She was currently standing about five inches to the right of Wilson's car. She was in the pedestrian walkway and Wilson and House were stopped at a stoplight. She was inches away from House. Both parties were waiting for the light to turn green and the "Walk" signal to light up. Once he realized she thought he was flirting with her, instead of making fun of her, he grew bored with her and scanned his surroundings again to find a new object for his insanely twisted sense of humor.

"Ooh, stop over there!" he shouted, abruptly pointing to an establishment on the right and nearly startling Wilson into an accident with the aforementioned freaky woman. "Shut up! I almost hit her! What are you yelling about?"

"Stop at the Kwik-E Mart! I need some Guinness!" House commanded.

"Like hell you do. I told you to shut up about the groceries. I got that under control."

"You got me some Guinness? Alright, man!"

"I said I had the groceries under control. Enough about the Guinness. Find someone to mock before I just stop and dump you out right here, moron," Wilson laughed.

"You wouldn't dump a poor cripple out on the pavement!" House mocked.

"Nope, but you're about to find out how fast I would dump a rich one. Someone who can afford a $12,000 guitar is not 'poor'."

"Oops, you weren't supposed to know about that," House smirked.

"How can I not know about your collection of musical instruments, given that you hang them on every wall that has any empty space on it? And given the fact that your piano occupies most of the floor space in your living room? You could have a whole party of dancing monkeys on top of that thing."

"Now that would be footage worthy of Youtube. Monkeys dancing and crapping all over Lucille."

"Honestly? Lucille? You named it after BB King's guitar?"

"She's not an IT. She's a beautiful black baby grand piano. Now can we shut up about Lucille and her $12,000 friend and focus on getting HOME?"

"Gladly," Wilson replied, just as they turned on to Baker Street and the front door of 221B came into view.

The first problem was that someone else had parked in front of House's apartment. Residents in his building didn't have reserved parking but it was always agreed upon that the spot in front of any particular address belonged to the resident at that address.

When House was admitted to the hospital, Dr. O'Malley's golfing buddies Tim and Jeff made arrangements to drive House's car home but they didn't know where he lived. They made arrangements to keep House's car at Jeff's house until Wilson or someone else could come and get it. Jeff felt certain that Dr. O'Malley would tell Wilson to pick up the car, but in all the drama that had occurred since then, nobody told Wilson where House's car was.

"Where's my damn car?" shouted House. "Some idiot stole it!"

"House, nobody wants your ten year old car. Maybe someone at the golf course knows where it is. Calm down. We'll track it down."

But House would have none of that. He was getting more and more agitated by the minute. "Shit! Call the police! It's stolen, I tell you! Not that I can drive it anyway, but we have to find it!"

"I doubt that it's stolen. Calm down. Let's get inside, and then I'll call the golf course. Either they still have it, they had it towed, or one of the guys you played with might have driven it to their home. They don't know where you live. Chill out. It'll be ok."

With no suitable place to park close by, Wilson did the only thing he could do. He double parked right next to the offender's car, in front of House's apartment, completely blocking the narrow street. As he shut the engine off to get out and go around to help House, sure enough, someone called the cops because the street was now completely blocked by Wilson's car. Chaos ensued as House saw the cops pull up behind Wilson's car, and thought for a moment that they were coming in response to his stolen car. A neighbor appeared, shouting about the "stupid idiots who blocked the entire street." Wilson shouted back about the "idiot who stole a parking space that didn't belong to him," and the situation only worsened when Wilson angrily approached the neighbor and the neighbor panicked. The cops followed Wilson and House realized they were not coming because of his stolen car. Suddenly House was alone. Wilson's car was sitting parked in the middle of the street in front of House's apartment, with the passenger side door open, but the walker and wheel chair were still in the trunk of Wilson's car and completely out of House's reach. Helpless to do anything else, the only thing House could do was sit there and scream for help while Wilson and the neighbor had it out with each other verbally. The cop's partner heard House and ran to help.

When the cop's partner arrived at the passenger side door, House was almost beside himself with anger and pain. He'd managed to find the button inside Wilson's car to pop the trunk, and tried to get out of the car on one leg with the intention of hopping to the trunk to get the walker. He never made it that far. The ride home, in and of itself, did not cause his leg to cramp. It was the combination of the immobility in the car, his missing car, the ensuing argument between Wilson and House's neighbor, and the fear of being left alone in a vulnerable position that caused his leg to cramp up like a fat guy running a marathon. When the cop's partner got to House, House was still standing on his left leg, with a death grip on the car, trying to remain upright while his right leg went through the fourth circle of Hell on it's way to the fifth.

"Oh my God. Here, sit down. John, grab the perp and get him over here. He's with this guy. This guy needs help."

_Wilson's a perp_, thought House as John's partner gently guided House back down onto the seat of the car. John had Wilson handcuffed and was practically dragging Wilson back to Wilson's car.

"You guys know each other?" John asked.

"Yeah. He's the devil. He kidnapped me out of the hospital," House baited the cops.

"House, they're not playing! Honestly, sir. This is what happened. He's my friend. He was let out of the hospital by his doctor for an overnight pass. He lives here. I couldn't park in his spot because someone else is parked there. We don't know whose car is there. He can't walk. I had to temporarily park my car here in the street because it's right in front of his place and someone else is in his parking space. I was just going to help him into the house and then come right out and move the car. I just overreacted when the neighbor started yelling. That's all. I haven't done anything against the law."

With House safely sitting on the car seat, John pulled out his pad to start writing the report. His partner responded. "Mr. Wilson, I'm going to uncuff you but not until you've heard this. First of all, double parking is always illegal. So yes, sir, you did do something against the law. Secondly, and more importantly, what kind of idiot would leave his disabled friend alone in a parked car in the middle of the street, completely blocking the street? Someone could have rear ended the car with your disabled friend in harm's way! I can't charge you for being an idiot but I can and will charge you with double parking. Relax, it's just a ticket. We could have arrested you because if that shouting match had gone on about two seconds more, it would have resulted in an assault charge for you and the neighbor. John cuffed you because we don't know you from Adam. You could have assaulted one of us. And yes, I do know that you have a prior warrant for your arrest from Louisiana. I'm going to let that slide. We will help you get your friend inside. You need to move this car immediately." John finished the report. "Mr. Wilson, I'm uncuffing you now. Put your hands on the hood of your car where I can see them. Do not move. I would have you sit in my patrol car, but we may need your help with your friend. Do not move until I say so."

Standing spread-eagled, his hands planted on the hood of his car, Wilson was crying and staring straight at House through the windshield. "I'm so sorry, House," he sobbed softly.

John's partner went to the trunk of the car, pulled out and unfolded the wheel chair. House, by now reacting more out of embarrassment than anything else, recoiled away from the cops when they reached in to grab him under the shoulders to try to help him into the chair. Both legs were out of the car, so he couldn't slam the door shut and retreat back into the car like he wanted. Snarling obscenities at the cops, he kept them at bay with a verbal attack.

"Sir, we're trying to help. You need to get into the house. We're here to help," John and his partner insisted.

"Let me the fuck alone. I don't need you. I don't need anyone. Just let me alone," House demanded over and over again. His demands began to get a little softer and more muffled as the cops realized he was crying too.

Both policemen backed off. "Mr. Wilson, slowly approach the passenger side of the car and talk to your friend. Keep your hands where we can see them."

Complying quickly with the policemen, Wilson scurried over to House's side. Clearly keeping his hands out where the police could see them, Wilson crouched down to House's level and spoke softly to him. "House, I'm sorry. I'm an idiot. Let's get inside. Can you manage the walker, or do you want the chair?"

Snuffling a little, and very embarrassed, House bored a hole into Wilson with his eyes and growled softly, "I can handle the walker. I just don't want an audience. Go deal with these guys before they haul your ass off to the Trenton state lockup. Let them write you up. I can handle myself if you'll just get my walker."

Retreating back to a standing position, Wilson held his hands out as if in surrender, clearly demonstrating he was just an idiot and no threat to the cops. "I need to get his walker. It's in the trunk."

Thanks to House's earlier efforts, the lid of the trunk had already been popped. Both cops had already searched the trunk to confirm there were no guns, knives, or any other kind of deadly weapons of mass destruction back there. What they found were House's wheel chair, House's walker, House's overnight bag, a small box of medical looking stuff, a space blanket, a small shovel, a bag of de-icing salt, some crank flashlights and basically enough other emergency supplies to survive a nuclear holocaust. No weapons, though.

"Ok, go ahead and get his walker. Can we help?"

"No. We got this. Look, obviously I'm not being arrested so can we have some privacy? I've made enough of a scene already. I'm not running away and he doesn't need an audience. If you can wait a few minutes, we'll get into the house and then you can do whatever you need to do with me. Is that alright?"

"Sure. All we need you to do is sign the ticket and move your car. But get him into the house first."

The policemen backed off a little more to give House a little privacy. Upon verifying that their help was really not needed, one of them walked back to direct some of the traffic that had begun to back up behind Wilson's car.

Wilson unfolded House's walker next to the open passenger-side door, and slowly House emerged from the car. Wilson moved out of the way and hoped to God that any nearby rubberneckers would have more common courtesy than he apparently did, and not stare or rush over to try to help while House made his way with the walker up to his apartment. Wilson scanned the surroundings. Fortunately the neighbor who, up until a few minutes ago had been yelling at Wilson, showed care and concern for House. The neighbor stayed put, seeing that House was managing on his own. There didn't seem to be any other audience besides the two cops.

After House was safely in his home, he couldn't wait for the "Wilson and the PD" show. The itching and cramping were still there but even those could not distract him from the scenes he was sure were about to unfold between Wilson and the cops inside House's apartment. Well, House and Wilson's. Or maybe just House's. Wilson might still be headed off to the hoosegow with the cops if he opened his mouth any more than he already had. _Just move the damn car and shut up in front of the cops,_ House prayed fervently to himself. _Don't leave me here alone._

As Wilson signed the ticket shoved in front of him by Officer John, John's partner said "So we won't hear any civil disturbance complaints coming from this address?"

"No." Wilson really wanted to say _No, asshole, I'm really a nice guy but you're pissing me off_ _worse than the neighbor._ Finally realizing the terrible consequences it would have for House if he opened his mouth to the cops any more than that, and got hauled off to jail, Wilson smartly limited his response to "No."

"Good. Your court date is on the bottom of this ticket. Go move your car now. Good day, sir," they said to Wilson. And to House, John said "Sir, I'm awfully sorry for the scene your friend caused out there. I hope you feel better soon."

With the cops gone and Wilson out moving the car trying to find a parking spot, House finally had time by himself in his own home to let his guard down. Pounding out his frustration on the brown leather sofa, he grabbed a pillow and threw it across the room. He could have punched a hole in the sofa but the leather was too tough. One hand was beating on the sofa and the other was massaging and scratching the thigh that was slowly becoming his nemesis. Instead of learning to live with this, House felt like he was learning to fight it. The pain wasn't really all that bad with the current medication regimen, but the thought of having to take medication and still be disabled for the rest of his life was what he was really fighting. That plus the damnable itching, or numbness, or hot, or cold, or pin prick sensations that he was convinced would never go away.

So he sat on his couch feeling sorry for himself and pounding out his frustration on the rich brown leather. What he really wanted was a stupid Guinness. Wilson wouldn't even stop on the way home to get him the simple pleasure of a cold, rich brown Guinness Stout. House grabbed the walker and lurched to his feet, bound and determined to find a cold beer somewhere in this house. As he got to his feet, he looked around and was stunned to find his beautiful rug was gone. The furniture and piano were still where they had been but his rug was gone. He knew John from the OT department at Princeton General had been in to make sure his home was _handicapped_ accessible. House shuddered at that word and at the thought that a stranger moved his stuff. _What else did they do to make my house cripple-proof?_

Right now he just wanted to get to the fridge and hope there was a cold Guinness in there. Chances were pretty good there wouldn't be an ounce of alcohol anywhere in the apartment, but it was worth a try anyway.

He hopped in his walker over to the fridge and almost cried when he opened it. Fully stocked with everything a family of ten would need for at least a month, House found two brown bottles in the door of the fridge; a Kaliber and a Guinness Extra Stout. They were ice cold. _Perfect,_ thought House with a bitter smile. _The Kaliber, Guinness' low alcohol beer, must be for me. Wilson gets the good stuff and I get the low alcohol crap._

Popping the top off the beer was going to be quite an interesting feat considering he currently had no hands available to even hold the damn bottle, what with having to hold on to the walker to maintain his balance. _Shit._

Giving up in frustration, he slammed the fridge door shut and hopped in his walker back to the sofa.

Wilson came back after his nearly half-mile long hunt for a parking space along Baker street.

"Where were you?" House glowered.

"Sorry. I had trouble finding a parking spot. Listen, we need to talk."

"No we don't. I saw the low alcohol crap in the fridge. I guess you got the good stuff for yourself and the watered down shit for me. All I wanted to do was enjoy one nice cold Guinness in MY home with the man I love. But you couldn't wait to go yell at my neighbor and show off what a big macho man you are, and crap all over me by leaving me stuck in your car in the middle of the street. Yeah, this is turning out to be one hell of a good day. Go in the bedroom or something with your Guinness and leave me alone."

"House, I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I'm an idiot. We're all idiots sometimes. True, I was King Supreme Idiot of All Time today, but I'm sorry."

House quietly sniggered at "King Supreme Idiot of All Time."

"Should I have that engraved on a name plaque for your office when you join your new group practice? Dr. James E. Wilson, MD, King Supreme Idiot of All Time."

Wilson relaxed a little as the tension in the room seemed to melt. "Well, maybe two separate plaques. Then I can move the 'King Supreme Idiot of All Time' part of the plaque to your office door under YOUR name, when the Governor of New Jersey shows up needing an illness diagnosed and you call her Mrs. Moron."

Both guys laughed, albeit a bit nervously. "We okay?" Wilson asked.

"Yeah. Seriously, though, dump that near beer. I want the real stuff."

"Kaliber's good! You should try it," Wilson persisted.

"I want the real stuff," House countered.

"Ok. I'll pour us some beers." Wilson got up to go pour the beers.

"I want the bottle!" yelled House.

"Ok," replied Wilson from the kitchen. Safely in the kitchen and out of House's sight, Wilson popped the top off both beers. He poured both beers, switched the bottles, and brought House's beer out along with the empty Guinness Extra Stout bottle. Wilson had his glass in one hand and the empty Kaliber bottle in the other.

"Mmmm, this is wonderful," Wilson said as he took a long pull from his glass and closed his eyes.

"Yeah… God, this is great. I haven't had a beer in over a month. Man, gotta love that Guinness," House said, smacking his lips after a nice long pull from his glass. The thick foam was almost the consistency of whipped cream. It was awesome. "This is so good," House raved. House tipped the glass back again and almost drained the entire glass in the second pull. He smacked his lips again and stared at the bottle to see if any was left. The contents of the bottle were a little bit darker than what was in his glass. House abruptly looked at Wilson who was smiling and looked like he was about to burst forth with laughter. Wilson had a devilish twinkle in his eye as he drained the contents of his own glass.

"You shit. I just drank the Kaliber, right? You switched bottles on me." House said.

Wilson finally burst out giggling. "Yep. And don't tell me you didn't love it because you just got done raving about it."

House smiled that famous, drop-dead sexy lopsided smile of his. "Score another one for Wilson. It is good. You win. Pay attention, 'cause I'm only going to say this once. I like the Kaliber. Please buy more of it. Thank you very much, and you can stay in here with me. You're officially un-banished from my sight."

Wilson responded, "Wow, I'm so honored to be in your humble presence, my lord. What else can I do for you, my king?"

House turned serious again. A lot of creaking noises started coming from the leather couch as House scooted too and fro, apparently fidgeting nervously. Several moments of silence followed as he obviously fought with himself as to whether or not he should even say this at all. Maybe it would be easier to just stay where he was, but sooner or later the cushions would either swallow him or cough him back up. Finally, Mother Nature won the battle. "I'm sorry. I think I need a hand getting up."

Wilson started clapping. "What, you said you needed a hand!"

"NOT THAT KIND OF HAND, IDIOT!" House roared, somewhere between an exasperated shout and a loud laugh. "You want me to pee all over my own couch? Help me figure out how to get myself up!"

"Ok. I can pull you up to stand this time but then after you're in the bathroom, I'm going to put some folded blankets under the sofa cushions so you won't sink so far down in the couch. It'll be easier to get up on your own if you don't sink down so far in the cushions."

"Need any help in there?" Wilson asked, facing House's back as House quickly hopped the few feet down the hall to the bathroom.

"Not since I was three," House fired back.

Alone in his bathroom with the door shut, House took care of the immediate need. Sighing deeply with content over a task independently accomplished and the comfort of a now-empty bladder, House surveyed the changes the Safety Patrol had made to his bathroom. John's and Wilson's touches were everywhere. House wasn't quite sure what to make of the new grab rails that had been installed near his toilet, sink and bathtub. They looked like something you'd find in an old age home. Obviously John was behind those. Wilson must have been behind the idea of removing his plush bathtub and toilet rugs. Nothing but a bare tile floor in here. Well, not exactly. It wasn't even the same tile. They had replaced the tile in his bathroom with rough, slip-proof tile. No doubt Wilson was responsible for that. No doubt at all. It even looked like something Wilson would pick out. Not that it was ugly or anything. House begrudgingly had to admit that the tile was a wonderful idea. House simply didn't deal well with change and having his home permanently modified because of his disability was the worst. Some people would look at these changes like they were improvements, home improvements meant to make the home more inviting and liveable for someone with a disability, to give them back their independence. House chose to look at the changes differently, as though he was being forced to have his home defaced because he was now a cripple. Hell, even the toilet was now raised and the sink was modified too, to make room for his walker. _Shit, next thing you know they're going to rip the door down to make the doorway wider. _The bathroom was not wheel chair accessible because the door frame wasn't wide enough, but apparently Wilson had a contractor and didn't seem afraid to put the contractor to work. God forbid they should come in and widen the bathroom doorway. He didn't need it and he wouldn't allow it if they asked.

After washing his hands, House slowly made his way back to the living room to his desk and chair. Seated at the desk, he pulled out a piece of typing paper and wrote in big black bold letters:

"Do not carve up my house any more. Sincerely, G. House, the homeowner, in case you've forgotten."

He made another identical sign. One would be displayed prominently on the desk, and one would be taped up prominently on the outside of the bathroom door.

House turned around to face Wilson. Wilson feigned ignorance of what House was writing. "You ever built a fire in that fireplace?" Wilson asked.

"You ever cleared an apartment of smoke because some idiot decided to build a fire in a faux fireplace before? Look in the damn fireplace! There's no chimney!" House replied smartly.

"Come on, give me a break." Wilson confessed. "You knew some modifications were going to be necessary. I like them, but if you don't, we can change them to whatever you want."

"I know. I do like them. It's just, this whole thing so completely sucks. I like the bathroom tile, I appreciate the safety bars in the bathroom, and I appreciate that you stole my rug out here so I wouldn't trip and plant my ass on this hardwood floor. I just hate that any of this has to be done. It sucks, Wilson. That's it. It just sucks. It's necessary, and it fucking sucks. I like my things the way I like them, and I hate that my home has to be all hacked up just 'cause I'm a stupid cripple now."

Not knowing what to say, but wanting to move quickly past this obviously self-loathing attitude, Wilson acknowledged House's feelings by just saying "I know." Two simple words. But really, Wilson didn't know. He just had no idea how to respond when House said things like this. Maybe not dwelling on it was the key.

"Don't patronize me. I know you don't know what to say and I appreciate what you're doing for me. This is my problem to deal with, not yours. If you think I'm sulking, yeah, well, I am. That's me."

Touched by House's expression of vulnerability, Wilson took him gently by the shoulder and said "Let's go find something on TV. We can't make a fire – it was a joke anyway. I'll make us some dinner and you go get comfortable somewhere."

Twenty minutes later, Wilson was happily chopping and slicing stuff in the kitchen to the strains of Judy Garland singing "How Long Has This Been Going On" coming from the stereo. Fifteen minutes after that, Wilson brought two plates laden with delicious items from House's fully stocked kitchen, singing in a soft, sultry voice, "There were chills, up my spine, and some thrills I can't define. Little while, tell me now. How long has this been going on?"

House was still in the bedroom getting changed. Wilson would let him have as much time as he needed to get this done independently and with dignity. "You'll let me know if you need help, right? Otherwise I'll leave you to it. I'll keep the food hot 'til you're ready."

"I'm ready," House said in an equally sultry voice, emerging from the bedroom with brand new cotton pajama bottoms on and nothing else. His hair was messed up in that supremely hot, sexy way he had of just running his fingers through it and calling it combed. "What's for dinner?" he growled, but then his stomach growled even louder and it kind of ruined the cool move he was trying to put on Wilson. Not that it was easy to even look remotely like he was putting cool moves on anyone with the walker and the fact that he could only move a few feet at a time hopping on one leg without having to stop for a rest, but hey, you do what you can with what you have available to you at the moment, right?

"Damn, put a shirt on or we're going to have to bypass dinner and go straight for dessert! I'm hungry for dinner, dude, and trust me, dessert will be well worth the wait."

"Dude? Did you seriously just call me Dude?" House laughed.

"Ok, then, MAN. Dude, Man, Dummy, whatever. Please put a shirt on so I can calm down enough to eat a decent dinner with you first before we get to that luscious dessert," Wilson smiled.

"If I have to…" House said, tossing his head dramatically. Fortunately he was still standing in the doorway of his bedroom, so the return trip back to the dresser was actually just two or three feet. He could handle that easily if it meant getting dessert after dinner.

A few minutes later, House re-emerged, standing in the doorway to the bedroom, with a Santana tee shirt on. At least it used to say Santana. It was now so faded that the first N and the last A were almost invisible. From not so far away it looked like it said Satan. Wilson took one look and burst out laughing again. "Satan, what kind of wine do you want?"

"Wine? Seriously? You make me drink water beer and now you're letting me have wine? Or wait, is it non alcoholic wine? Do they even make non alcoholic wine? Better question is, do I need to watch you pour it from the bottle?"

"That's why I wanted you to try the Kaliber earlier. There's nothing wrong with one glass of beer or wine alcohol now and then. You just have to drink in moderation, which I understand is not in your vocabulary at all. But it needs to be. Yes, this is regular alcohol red wine. What's your pleasure – Cabernet Sauvignon, Merlot, or Shiraz?"

"Wow, I'm so honored. You're actually letting me choose something of my own volition this time. The Cab is fine. Thanks," House replied as he made his way to the living room with a wince. _Oh God, the meds are wearing off… _

Unable to hide the pain any more, House stopped about two feet from the couch where Wilson had set up TV trays. Hunched over his walker, House grabbed furiously at his thigh. He was bent over, supporting himself with his chest on the top of the walker so he could free up both hands to scratch and rub his thigh wildly in a futile attempt to stop the pain and itching. "Shit, Wilson, help…"

Wilson was there in a flash, gently applying a generous amount of the anesthetic cream they'd just picked up from the pharmacy on House's scar and surrounding tissue. "Come on, buddy. The couch is right behind you. I got you. I'm not going to let you fall. Sit down and let the cream take effect. You can have your neurontin too, and let's check that fentanyl patch and make sure it didn't fall off. I know you're not wearing it on your chest anymore. Where is it?"

House gasped "It's on my left thigh. I moved it down there so I could go around shirtless and still look hot and sexy."

"When did you move it?" Wilson asked, knowing full well what the answer would be. Obviously.

"While I was changing my clothes a little while ago."

"Now we know why you're hurting. It's ok; the patch was probably off a little too long. That's ok; take some deep breaths. It'll kick in again soon. When you need your next patch, we'll put it on your back. You can go around shirtless and still look just as hot as ever. And I swear, I'm not trying to get my freak on or anything – at least not yet. I need you to pull your pants down so we can check and make sure the patch didn't fall off."

In too much pain and itching too bad to think of a smart ass comeback, House just silently did as he was asked. The patch was still firmly adherent to his left thigh.

"Good. Pull your pants back up. Take some more deep breaths, and I'll get the heating pad. By the time the heating pad heats up, you should be a lot more comfortable and we can enjoy a nice dinner together."

Wilson got the heating pad set up and gave it a few minutes to warm up properly. Within about five minutes, the anesthetic cream started having the desired effect and the heating pad kicked in too.

Ten minutes later, the pain and itching were largely gone. Unfortunately, House's mood seemed to be gone too.

Sitting there staring apathetically at the wine he'd practically been salivating over an hour ago, he picked at Wilson's delicious dinner. He was pushing it around his plate and playing with it more than eating it. Wilson said nothing, calmly and patiently waiting for House to say what was on his mind.

His gentle patience was rewarded when House muttered "You remember saying you weren't trying to get your freak on because you just wanted to check the patch and make sure it hadn't fallen off? Well, I WAS trying to get my freak on. Not then. I mean before then. When I came out of the bedroom shirtless, all I wanted to do was sit with you, drink the wine you poured for me, enjoy the dinner you worked so hard on, and find out how good dessert with you really could be. Then this damn thing reared its ugly head." He jabbed pointedly at his right thigh. "It won't let me go. It won't let me alone. I can't have two normal thoughts in a row without the third one being that sharp razors are stabbing me in the leg or getting distracted by the sudden onset of complete numbness or incessant, unrelenting itching. You know what it's like to have the skin be completely numb but the tissue underneath it hurt? Or to itch so bad that all you want to do is take some sandpaper and scratch all your skin off? I can't have one, uninterrupted, normal hour of just being NORMAL. How can I be normal again?"

"I don't know, House, but your support group does."

"Yeah," House said, a little bitterly. "They do. They also know, just like I do, what it's like to think that you can only achieve "normality" or "wholeness" with drugs, psychobabble, crutches, a wheelchair, a walker, a cane or however many other God-forsaken things just to stay propped up and functioning."

Wilson moved over next to House and put his arm around House's shoulders. Ashamed and tired of everything being such a battle, House just hung his head. "I told you before that I'm staying with you through all of this. I wasn't lying. Regardless of whether or not you agree with me, you're worth it. You're worth it now and you always will be, no matter how our lives change in other ways." He cradled House's head and as they relaxed back into the sofa cushions, Wilson took off his shirt and gently, loosely wrapped it around the heating pad on House's thigh to keep it from falling off as they moved. Emotionally raw, House let any vestiges of his defensive walls come tumbling down as his strong arms found their way around Wilson's chest. This wasn't lust. A man's three foot thick stone fortress of sarcasm, lies, mistrust and general disdain for human relationships had completely collapsed and all vestiges of it erased from the Earth. And his confidante, his friend, his chum, his LOVER, Wilson was there to help him rebuild a fortress of love. "Love", that word, that sentiment that used to make him want to run back to a bar somewhere and drink until he puked. Yeah, love. He could learn to live with that.

House and Wilson melted into each other's arms until the two became as one. No, it wasn't just a way to satisfy some kind of need for sexual gratification. It wasn't a quickie, a cheap thrill, or some perverted way for House to get "proof" that someone loved him. Little Greg was too saturated with fentanyl to salute in response to Wilson's ministrations, but House needed no more proof that Wilson loved him and he didn't need to have Little Greggie salute Wilson in order to prove his love for Wilson either. Two men who already loved each other long before tonight just naturally took their relationship to the highest level. Lost in love's embrace, whether or not Little Greg could salute tonight or not suddenly didn't make a damn bit of difference to either of them.

Reveling in the endorphin release after he climaxed, Wilson had an idea. Even though he knew House was too lost in the moment, too (gasp) happy and secure in the knowledge that Wilson loved him UNCONDITIONALLY to care that Little Greg wouldn't stand up, he had one more surprise for House. Gently rolling away from House to avoid putting undue pressure on his leg, Wilson found the new Minoxidil prescription he'd just started taking. Wilson had high blood pressure. Minoxidil is a vasodilator, dilating the blood vessels and lowering the blood pressure when taken orally. It's also a vasodilator, albeit a much milder one, when made into a lotion or spray for use on the scalp. The direct application of minoxidil to the scalp causes the blood vessels supplying the hair follicles to dilate, presumably increasing blood flow to the hair follicles and restoring hair growth.

No reason why a piece of a minoxidil tablet, ground up and made into an ointment with another emollient, wouldn't help Little Greg stand up straight and tall. It was worth a try. Wilson had an epiphany! A House moment!

Within a few short minutes, he'd ground up a tiny little piece of one of his minoxidil tablets, mixed it with a little water and a lot of hand lotion, and came back to the couch with a jar full of the nauseating looking stuff. House was laying there awake, with a goofy grin on his face and at the same time afraid to move because the pain and paresthesias would come back with a vengeance. He just wanted to enjoy this moment. He'd taken Wilson over the edge and didn't even need to worry that Little Greg wouldn't stand up for the ride. It didn't matter.

But Wilson had other ideas. "Hey," he said gently. "You gotta get up off this couch sometime. It's only 11 pm. We have to go to bed. You can't stay out here all night. Come on; I'll help you if you want. Come on," he encouraged. "I'll put some more of your anesthetic cream on your leg first if you want. Did it help last time?"

"Oh yeah!" House said sleepily.

Wilson applied more of House's prescription anesthetic cream to his thigh. House took his evening neurontin which had been forgotten about in the drama surrounding dinner. About fifteen minutes later, he was ready to attempt the trip back to the bedroom. Lumbering awkwardly in the walker, he still managed to make it safely and securely back to the bedroom on his own. Wilson had that sparkle in his eyes again. "You have plans for me, my captain?" House asked, with more than just a little attempt at flirting.

"Lay back on the bed. I'll help you with your leg if you want." House obediently sat down on the bed. Wilson gently supported his right leg and House flopped over onto his back. "Now for that other leg. Cover up. You want to be nice and warm for this."

House, more and more curious as to what Wilson had planned, did what Wilson asked. "It's already like 95 degrees in here. What are you doing….. Oooohhhh, oh my God, that's marvelous" breathed House as Wilson crawled under the covers from the foot of the bed with the jar of Wilson's Own ED Remedy lotion in one hand and the other hand expertly applying the same lotion to all the right areas. Up and down, up and down, up and down. Around and around and around. From one end to the other, over and over again, gently at first and then a little more firmly rubbing more WOED Remedy in. One can never be sure one has applied the correct amount of such a home made remedy until one sees the results. "You're all about cause and effect, aren't you, House," Wilson breathed roughly into House's stomach while nibbling on his belly button and continuing his ministrations on Little Greg with WOED Remedy. House's breathing got more and more ragged as he sputtered "Oh, yeah…"

"Is this" rub "having" rub "the desired" rub "effect?" Wilson ground out slowly, each word punctuated by a corresponding rub on House down below, moving his eyes up to meet House's.

But House's eyes were closed as House gasped out "yes" and then "yes!" and then "YES!" as Little Greggie slowly unfurled into a full fledged Mount Gregory and then erupted like a ten thousand year dormant volcano. But just like earlier in the evening for Wilson, House's climax was so much more than just the release of sexual tension. It no longer mattered how much more time House would have to spend in rehab, learning to deal with his disability and his new life. For the first time in his life, someone loved House unconditionally and more importantly, House loved him even more.


	44. Afterglow

**A/N – this is a short chapter but it said everything I wanted to say. Very strong warning for mature sexual situations! The night of fun continues. I don't think any of you will ever look at the process of applying and removing a heating pad or a medication patch quite the same way again. Since the next big chunk of the story will cover House's return to rehab, I wanted to wrap up their overnight pass with a bang. Here we go!**

In the afterglow, Wilson looked lovingly at House. Anticipating the need, Wilson had left a damp washcloth under the lamp next to House's bed, keeping it warm. Awash in a surge of endorphins, House felt like he was floating on his back in a cloud. For the first time in a long time, his right leg felt as much like warm jello as his other extremities and there was no trace of pain or itching or anything else. All he felt was peace, relaxation and (ick) love. That last one was really a stranger, albeit a welcome one. The feeling of "love" was new and different, a little bit fearful and a whole lot exciting at the same time. With all of his muscles feeling like pudding, House very much enjoyed Wilson's further ministrations with the warm washcloth.

Apparently Wilson wasn't finished with the afterplay yet.

With all of the WOED cream on his privates and the residual lidocaine cream (which was originally on his scar but was now smeared all over the place), plus the lava from Mount Gregory's eruption, there was quite a mess to clean up. With no intention of moving from his most comfortable position in bed, House was quite happy to let Wilson do whatever he wanted in the way of cleanup.

Gently and with finesse, Wilson traced the area of House's right thigh around the heating pad with his index finger, lightly and erotically. "My king, we need to turn this off and unplug it. You need to be cleaned."

"Mmmmmmhhhhhhh" was House's only reply. In restful repose, House was awake but his eyes were closed and the look on his face was one of peaceful bliss. He was high, yes, and Wilson took pleasure in the knowledge that he was the reason.

Wilson slowly traced the length of one of the heating pad's cords until he found the on/off switch. He nibbled on House's ear gently and flicked the power switch off. Again, with his index finger, he slowly and erotically traced the length of the other cord until he could reach no further. With his eyes locked onto House's face, Wilson breathed heavily into House's ear. "I'm unplugging it now," he murmured. Never taking his eyes off of House's face, he jerked the heating pad's power cord out of the wall.

Wilson's shirt was still wrapped around the heating pad loosely. Wilson walked his index and middle fingers lightly up and down, up and down, up and down the shirt that was wrapped around the heating pad. Taking care never to hurt House, he entwined his fingers in the loose knot and untied the shirt. Brushing House's stubble lightly with his nose, Wilson lightly picked up the shirt and tossed it to the floor.

Wilson began lightly tracing his pinky finger around the perimeter of the heating pad, again taking utmost care not to hurt House. By now House's eyes were wide open, having long ago surrendered completely to Wilson's ministrations. His mouth was fixed in that drop dead sexy lopsided grin, and every muscle in his body was completely relaxed and enjoying every minute of this. Nobody had ever shown this much care and concern for him before. This was more than sex. It was love.

Having traced his pinky completely around the perimeter of the heating pad, he gently nudged the heating pad off until it too fell to the floor.

"Time to be cleaned," Wilson whispered hoarsely against House's neck.

House closed his eyes as he felt the deliciously warm, relaxing sensation of being cleaned gently with a warm wet washcloth. Taking care not to wipe away any residual lidocaine cream that was still on House's scar, Wilson gently traced the warm wet washcloth over the uninjured part of House's right thigh. Lifting three corners of the washcloth, he slowly allowed the fourth corner to drag up over House's pubic bone and over to his left thigh.

Using the entire surface of the washcloth, Wilson swirled it around and around, beginning with small circles, gently tracing the area around the fentanyl patch. He slowly enlarging the circles, until all of the mess on House's left thigh had been sufficiently cleaned up.

Taking a teasingly short break, Wilson stood up, staring straight into House's beautiful azure eyes, and said "Time for a break, my king. Stay right there."

"Happily," replied House with his trademark smirk.

Wilson returned from the bathroom seconds later with a clean warm wet washcloth and a large bath towel that had obviously sat on a warm surface. Wilson made a show of slowly bending over to pick up the heating pad, giving House every bit as much of a show as he could. Yes, House was hot, but so was Wilson. Few people ever got to see the well defined muscles and firm, taut skin under those dress suits Wilson wore every day. House was getting the show of all shows and enjoying every minute of it.

Wilson slowly moved over to the night stand and plugged the heating pad in again. Laying the heating pad down on the night stand, he folded the bath towel up and placed it on the heating pad. He turned the heating pad on and cranked it up to its warmest setting. The bath towel needed to be nice and toasty warm in about fifteen minutes.

Wilson flicked off the lamp on House's nightstand. The only light visible in the room was the tiny red glow from the power button on the heating pad.

"Stay still," Wilson growled in a sensual, low voice.

Wilson crawled back into bed, under the covers, from the foot of the bed. He had one corner of the warm wet washcloth in his mouth. Slowly dragging the other three corners of the washcloth up the inside of House's left leg, he arrived at his destination and let go of the fourth corner of the washcloth, covering Little Greg completely, and muttering "Don't move. It's time to finish the cleanup."

"Mmmnnnhhhh," House moaned, reveling in the newfound feeling of unconditional love without the expectation of anything in return, the warmth of Wilson's body and the warmth of the wet washcloth. Little Greg wasn't going to morph into Mount Gregory again tonight, but Wilson gave his love to House unconditionally anyway. Wilson didn't need Mount Gregory to erupt the first time, let alone a second time tonight. He helped House with his problem simply because he loved House. This feeling of unconditional love was very new to House. Someone doing something enjoyable for him without expecting anything in return. Enjoying the clean warmth, House turned to Wilson and whispered "I love you" over and over again, his voice becoming softer and softer, until the only sound coming from him was a soft snore.

Wilson lay awake whispering sweet nothings into House's neck, his left ear, and his hair. The cleanup wasn't finished yet, but if House could sleep through Wilson's nonstop sensual whispering, he'd let him sleep.

A few minutes later, House's eyelids began to flutter open a little. "You're not finished yet, are you…" House whispered back hoarsely.

"Not yet…" Wilson murmured.

Wilson walked his index and middle fingers slowly up from one corner of the washcloth, all the way up House's stomach, to his right nipple, around his right nipple, over to his left nipple, and back down to the other corner of the washcloth. Using his thumb and index finger, he deftly but gently flicked the washcloth to the floor.

"Stay there," he whispered softly to House, his words brushing past House's left ear.

Wilson crept softly out of bed, over to House's nightstand, and removed the toasty warm bath towel. Back into bed he slipped under the covers from the foot of the bed.

"Close your eyes."

Suddenly House's entire pelvic region and especially his right thigh were awash in the wonderful sensation of a hot plush towel. One of his fondest memories from a troubled childhood was when, after a cool bath, dressed in a clean shirt and shorts, he and his mother would go outside in the shade and he would stick his wet bare feet in the hot Egyptian sand. Even though he could only tolerate the hot sand for a few minutes, he enjoyed it, and more than that, he enjoyed the time with his mother.

Soaking in the dry heat from the toasty towel, he felt Wilson tuck the towel as well as he could around both of House's hips. He barely heard Wilson whisper, "Turn over on your side." There was so much wonderful, warm dry heat soaking through into his right thigh that pain was completely non-existent. House sleepily but dutifully rolled over onto his right side. Wilson was on the left side of the bed. With House's back to Wilson, he had no idea what Wilson was going to do next, but given the ministrations of the last few hours, he trusted Wilson completely and knew it would be wonderful.

Wilson lightly touched his tongue to House's back, beginning at the area between House's shoulder blades, and slowly licked his way down House's spine to the area of his lower back just above his tail bone. Suddenly, the licking stopped. The sound of a paper backing being pulled off of something sticky could be heard. It was faint. Just as quickly as the licking stopped, it started again, but this time House could feel Wilson licking a tiny area in the small of his back. He started in the center of the small circle, and then very slowly and sensually licked clockwise in gradually enlarging circles until an area about the size of a United States silver dollar had been licked clean.

As quickly as the licking stopped, he felt the sensation of something sticky being applied to his lower back. Moving his head back up to the middle of House's back, Wilson whispered hoarsely "Roll back on your back again, my king."

As House rolled back over onto his back, Wilson took care to make sure that the hot towel stayed in place around House's hips. Moving his beautiful brown-eyed gaze up to meet House's blue eyes, Wilson whispered "Close your eyes now and don't move."

House sighed deeply as he felt Wilson's tongue on the inside of his left knee. Moving up slowly, he traced a path up the inside of House's left leg, and House sighed again as he felt Wilson's head burrow underneath the hot towel. He felt Wilson's tongue trace its way slowly over to the anterior surface of his left thigh, to the edge of the old spent fentanyl patch. Nibbling on the non-medicated edge of the patch, Wilson grabbed the edge of it between his teeth and gently pulled it free from House's skin. Slowly sliding his head out from underneath the hot towel, Wilson looked up at House. With the edge of the spent patch still between his teeth, Wilson growled out "Open your eyes."

Looking straight into House's beautiful blue eyes, which sparkled even in the dark, Wilson slowly turned his head and spat the patch out onto the floor.

House started to feel the effects of the new fentanyl patch Wilson had so lovingly and sensually applied to his lower back.

Returning to gaze into his gorgeous baby blues again by the dim light of the heating pad's power switch, Wilson whispered "One more thing, big guy. Don't move."

Using the index finger of his left hand to trace his way slowly across House's chest and neck, Wilson reached over House to retrieve the heating pad on House's night stand.

Touching one corner of the warm heating pad to House's chest, Wilson slowly dragged the heating pad across the right side of House's chest, moving diagonally from the right side of his chest slowly down to House's abdomen. Allowing the heating pad to gently rest on House's abdomen for a few minutes, Wilson moved his ministrations southward a little and slowly removed the hot towel from around House's hips.

With a dramatic and sensual flair, he tossed the towel to the floor. With one corner of the heating pad between his thumb and index finger, one more ministration was in order before the clean up could be considered complete.

Gradually, oh so slowly, House felt one edge of the heating pad moving down from his abdomen to just above his pubic bone, then over the pubic bone until the entire heating pad found its final resting place on his right thigh.

Breathing roughly and hoarsely into House's left ear again, Wilson whispered "Good night, my king."

Wilson let the gorgeous sound of House's gentle snoring rock him to sleep.


	45. A guy thing

**A/N – Warning - the act of passing gas, of being flatulent, is mentioned in this chapter. I think it must be a guy thing. My apologies to any guys who might read this story and take offense, but hey, most guys that I know take pleasure out of passing gas loudly and leaving the bathroom a mess, so that's why I say it must be a guy thing. This chapter is mostly fluff; there's a little break in the angst before the next big thing hits. **

At 9 am the next morning, Wilson was up, showered, shaved and dressed. House was still in bed; awake, but not entirely, and definitely not ready to get up yet. The evidence of Wilson's activities this morning was everywhere. Breakfast was cooking, coffee had already been brewed, House's clothes and shoes had already been laid out on Wilson's side of the bed, and both the wheel chair and walker were easily within House's reach. They were in no hurry this morning. House didn't need to check back into the hospital until noon. In leaving both the wheel chair and walker set up and within House's reach, Wilson wanted to give House as much privacy and independence as possible, and leave the decision as to which assistive device was needed up to House.

The only pressing need House had at the moment, which was becoming more urgent by the minute, was to use the bathroom. The need to urinate roused House out of his semi-sleeping state. House began the stretching and limbering-up routine that he'd adopted in the hospital, which added another five or ten minutes to the already slow process of getting up in the morning.

From the kitchen, Wilson knew House was up when he heard the clunking of the walker on the floor. "Holler if you need help," Wilson called after him.

As he lumbered into the bathroom, the wisdom of having those grab rails placed in strategic locations became immediately apparent. He appreciated the additional room under the raised sink for a tall man's walker or cane. No longer would he have to stoop over to wash his face in the sink. He appreciated the raised toilet seat, even though it still looked like it belonged more in an old age home than in his home. The raised toilet seat meant it would be a hell of a lot easier to stand up from a seated position. At least the bathroom as a whole still looked like a man's bathroom, and not some old geezer's.

The tub had been redone to suit his needs, too. There was a new grab rail on the wall over the tub and a portable grab rail had been bolted on to the front side of the tub. A hand held shower had been installed on the shower head, and a portable padded shower seat had been installed in the tub. House didn't think he'd need the shower seat routinely, but the nice thing about this one was that it was a deluxe powered model. Once seated on it, he could lower the seat to the bottom of the bathtub, making it much easier to take a tub bath independently, and then raise the seat back up again in order to get out. House had nice antique fixtures in his bathroom and he appreciated the care that Wilson and the contractor had taken in installing everything without marring or disrupting the look of the antique plumbing and fixtures.

Standing to urinate was made much easier by the fact that there was a grab rail several feet above the toilet, and it protruded out from the wall far enough that a man standing to urinate wouldn't have to lean too far forward to hold on to the grab rail. House only had a half-height wall next to the toilet, so it wasn't possible to install a grab rail on either side of the toilet. Installing the grab rail several feet over the toilet was actually genius. It was high enough that he wouldn't bump his head on it when sitting down or getting up from the toilet, and he could use the half-height wall to help get on and off the toilet. He just needed the toilet grab bar to hold on to while standing to urinate. He made a mental note to find out from Wilson later what contractor he used, if he used one. As much as he detested the idea of having to have aids in his bathroom, now that they were there, he was thankful for them. Whoever installed the bathroom aids was a genius. House knew that the bathroom would never be wheel chair accessible, so there was no point in lowering the sink to make it accessible to someone in a wheel chair. Raising it so that a tall man wouldn't have to stoop over was the best that could be done and, in House's eyes, was a very touching gesture from Wilson.

"You ok back there?" Wilson called after him.

"Yeah. Just admiring the architecture," House quipped.

"Well, don't admire it too long. Food's getting cold."

"Won't break any speed limits getting out there, but I'm on my way."

The soft bumping sounds of a walker clunking on the tile floor in the bathroom gave way to the loud sounds of glass shattering. In a split second, Wilson was there to help.

House was standing in the middle of a small pool of water, a dirty toothbrush, and shards of broken glass on the floor, smiling softly in a very embarrassed way. He'd simply bumped the sink accidentally with his walker in the process of turning around to leave the bathroom after brushing his teeth. Typical of most guys, though, he'd left the bathroom a mess; water and toothpaste splattered all over the sink, a half full glass of dirty mouth water and the dirty unrinsed tooth brush on the wet surface of the vanity. They didn't stay on the vanity very long.

Relieved that House was fine, and noticing the distinctly embarrassed look on House's face, Wilson started laughing hysterically. "Shit… you scared the crap out of me! Serves ya right, idiot, for not rinsing your glass and toothbrush out and putting them up when you're done! Ever heard of cleaning up after yourself?

"Ever heard of plastic, moron? Geez, you spent a fortune on cripple-proofing the place and you can't spare a few bucks for a plastic cup?" House laughed. Since he couldn't die of embarrassment, the only thing he could do was snark back and try his best to just laugh it off.

Smiling out of relief that House wasn't injured, Wilson's next step was to make sure House had good slippers on so he wouldn't cut his feet on the glass. Wilson already had his dress shoes on, so he stepped in and kicked the mess aside.

"You ok while I get a broom and clean this up?"

"Yeah, but I need to sit down."

Laughing, Wilson said good-naturedly, "Yeah, I know. You're just looking for any old excuse not to have to clean this up."

Taking a brief respite seated on the closed toilet, House watched bemusedly while Wilson swept up the mess.

"And don't leave dirty toothbrushes, wet wash rags, half-full cups of water and stuff like that all over the bathroom anymore. I don't want to have to pick your ass up off the floor when you fall on the wet stuff," Wilson added.

"Yes, mommy!"

After every last little bit of broken glass was swept up and safely removed from the bathroom, and the floor was dry enough to be safe to walk on, Wilson left House to go back to the kitchen and finish up breakfast. He knew House would call if he needed help.

Within minutes, the clunking of the walker and House's unique step-hop gait could be heard coming down the short hallway. Wilson turned around when the clunking noises stopped. A drop-dead gorgeous man, dressed in a faded tee shirt and cotton pajama bottoms, stared back at him straight in the eye. The word "Quickie" came to mind immediately. God, Wilson wanted to take him right now on the coffee table. The look on House's face said _Right back at ya, brother._ Eye sex is wonderful. But since the adjective "quick" had to be re-defined when it came to House's current physical abilities, they had to be satisfied with hot eye sex while House made his way to the sofa.

House's kitchen was well stocked but wasn't big enough for a kitchen table. And the piano was sitting in the spot that would ordinarily have been occupied by a dining table. When Stacy was living there with him, they would either eat out or sit on the sofa and eat off of TV tray tables.

Thus, the only eating arrangement currently possible was to sit on the sofa and use the TV tables. Wilson had managed to stuff enough folded blankets under the sofa cushions so that House could sit on the sofa and not sink too far down into it.

House got himself situated as comfortably as possible on the sofa and Wilson brought breakfast in for both of them. "Hope you like it," Wilson began, but he hadn't even finished the sentence before the sounds of loud chewing and slurping could be heard. "Geez, you eat like a starving barnyard animal! So glad you obviously like it," Wilson said.

Bacon, eggs, pancakes, oatmeal and coffee all pretty much disappeared down House's throat within about fifteen minutes. Wilson had flipped on the Today Show, trying to get some news and weather. Shortly thereafter any noise from the TV was drowned out by a horrendously loud, very gross belch and then an "Aaahhhhh," coming from the sole occupant of the couch. The reason why House was the sole occupant of the couch was that Wilson knew what other noise usually followed a belch, especially after a full breakfast. Wilson had made a run for the kitchen to get out of the way of the fart that was sure to follow. Since belching and farting really did make up significant parts of their conversations sometimes, Wilson knew that a couch fart could be particularly overpowering, and was something to avoid being around at all costs.

House looked around. "What, you don't like belching anymore?"

"I'm not in the mood for a belching and farting contest with you this morning. You need to get dressed. We have to be back by noon."

"Can you bring my stuff out here?"

"Seriously? You're not getting dressed out here in the living room. You can make it back to the bedroom. Everything's already out on the bed."

Grumbling, House slowly got to his feet and clunked his way back to the bedroom with the walker. The grumbling continued the whole time he got dressed, and the act of getting dressed took a lot longer these days. Given adequate time and privacy, even though the grumbling never stopped, he completed it independently. Doing things independently, even though they might take a lot longer and cause a little inconvenience for other people who had to wait for him, was a lot better than having someone else interfere when it really wasn't needed. While he was still back in the bedroom, the sound of something electric could be heard. _Oh God, no, he's not shaving, is he?_, Wilson feared.

Appearing in the kitchen doorway about thirty minutes later, House was even hotter in the blue jeans, almost new gray print tee shirt and brand new red Nikes. His hair was just the right amount of messed up. He had obviously clipped his beard back a little, but there was still enough stubble left that Wilson almost couldn't resist the temptation to run his hand over it – again and again. Wilson's jaw dropped when he turned around from the sink full of dirty breakfast dishes to face the man he loved.

"We did enough of that last night, Boy Wonder. Don't we have to be somewhere soon?" House quipped.

Wilson had to take some deep breaths, to calm down and remind himself that there might be a better time and place, to do what he suddenly wanted to do with House, than right now and on the coffee table.

"I can help with the dishes," House added. "It'll speed things up. I know you can't stand the thought of leaving them in the sink."

"No, you can't help with the dishes," Wilson fired back.

"Ooohh, ouch! Yeah, shoot the poor cripple down."

Wilson replied, "Well, maybe I should say 'no you won't.' You wouldn't do them when you had two good legs, so why start now? When you hear what I'm about to say, don't think you're hallucinating. The breakfast dishes can wait. If you really want to go back now, sure, I can take you back now."

"It's not that I want to go back now just for the sake of going back to the hospital. It's that if we don't start back there now, we're going to run into lunchtime traffic, and I don't want to sit in the car any longer than I have to. I don't want to miss this time with you, and at the same time, if I miss any therapy at the hospital they'll just keep me longer to make up for it. It's a necessary evil."

House wasn't lying about why he wanted to go back. Nobody wants to go back to the hospital just because they love being there. It's a necessary evil in order to complete the prescribed inpatient therapy. House was a master scammer; ordinarily, he'd have found a hundred ways to manipulate the system in order to stay home longer than the overnight pass permitted, or else just scrap the pass altogether and stay home for good. But scamming his way out of his prescribed inpatient rehab program just didn't seem worth all the trouble it would take to make the scam successful. If Dr. Smith was gullible, Ruth certainly wasn't, and House still had some other issues to work through. Better to just face it head on and go back.


	46. Back from the pass

Ruth noticed House was "happy" when she saw him later that afternoon. She wasn't sure she'd ever seen him "happy" before, but she had seen that look plenty of times on other patients who had gone home for an overnight pass and had a good time. The only time it was usually relevant to dig into things more was when they came back even more depressed. She didn't pry into patients' private lives unless it had an impact on their therapy; the whole purpose of being able to go home for a short time was to alleviate depression, so when they came back in a good mood, the pass went well and the goal was achieved. She figured she knew what "had a good time" meant in many cases, and House certainly had that look and attitude about him today.

Wilson had just dropped him off in his room a little after noon, and lunch was being delivered to the patients. Someone had thoughtfully filled out menus for both men, and two hot lunches were waiting in the tray warmer for them. They had cheeseburgers, soup, salad, and something good for dessert. Everything was tasty and House was so hungry he felt like he could eat four more lunches.

Ruth came by after lunch for his afternoon PT session. House was smiling and both men were working a New York Times theme crossword puzzle. The theme was "Doctor Shows" and both of them were absolutely engrossed in the puzzle.

"Four down – five letters – Robert of 'Marcus Welby'. What was that guy's last name?"

"Welby!" said Wilson, smiling.

"No, idiot. What was the actor's last name?" House cracked.

"I was kidding. Young. Robert Young," Wilson replied.

"Oh yeah, the 'Make Room for Daddy' guy," House challenged. Wilson was such a TV geek, he would surely know the other old TV show Robert Young was famous for.

"Nope – 'Father Knows Best'.", Wilson countered.

House smiled and penciled the answer in. "Ten across – six letters – Hunnicutt's partner. Pierce," House muttered to himself. He penciled that answer in too. "This is too easy."

Easy or not, it was a nice intellectual diversion, and both men were having fun doing the puzzle.

Ruth knocked on the door and Wilson looked up from his puzzle. "We got company."

"I know. Tell it to go away," House replied without looking up from his paper.

"No can do. Glad to see you back. I guess you guys had fun?"

"Oh yeah!" House said dramatically. "Got a lot of exercise too. The fun kind."

"I don't need to know. Today's a big day. You're graduating from the walker to crutches. We have a few different styles of crutches in the PT room, and I'll have you try them out and you can pick which style is most comfortable. You'll be on them for awhile, so take your time picking them out. Your afternoon appointment isn't for another half hour yet, so you have time. I just wanted to drop by and make sure you were back from your pass and see how everything went. I'll see you in half an hour," Ruth said as she departed the room.

House briefly pondered the thought of getting rid of the walker. As much as he hated the thought that the walker made him look like he belonged in a nursing home, he'd grown accustomed to the walker, and took comfort in its solid support. Crutches would take a lot of getting used to, especially since their use would require better balance from him. He had always been a graceful, coordinated athletic person but events of the last month had sapped him of most of his lower body strength and muscle tone. Thanks to a good program of muscle strengthening, his upper body was in wonderful shape. His left leg was strong enough to take his weight, but his left hip was already beginning to feel the strain of having to bear more weight than it should. His right leg had atrophied a little from disuse.

The upside of using crutches was that it'd be a little easier to navigate stairs and tight spaces. The downside was, as long as he was bearing little or no weight on his right leg, his left leg would bear even more weight than with the walker. So the conclusion was, either they come up with some way to treat the arthritis that had probably already developed in his left hip and prevent it from getting worse, or have him start bearing more weight on the right leg. He had gotten used to the feeling of being nearly pain-free all day. Bearing more weight on the right leg would probably disrupt that and require changes to his pain management regimen.

Wonderful. In his previous life, he never would have accepted "good". "Good" was never good enough. He was only interested in "the best" of anything; his doctoring skills, his musical abilities, athletic endeavors, whatever. In this new life, the line between "good" and "the best" had pretty much been obliterated. "Good" for him now would have been "pretty damn bad" in his old life, and "the best" now would not even have been considered "good" before. In this case, "the best" would mean crutches and tweaking his pain management regimen around just when he was comfortable with things the way they were. House had already internalized that "the best" he could hope for was permanent use of some type of walking aid and permanently having to rely on some type of pain management regimen. The walking aid wasn't the problem. Permanently having to rely on a pain management regimen was.

Yet more proof that every good thing that happens to him carries a considerable price.


	47. Crutches

Rehab chapter 47

A/N – short chapter this time. My muse has left temporarily and inspiration for this story has been hard to come by. I may have another, longer and more interesting chapter up this weekend. In the meantime, enjoy!

In the physical therapy department for his afternoon PT session, it was time for introduction to the crutches. House looked around at the various crutch styles Ruth had out for him. He relished the thought of looking more "normal" by getting rid of the walker, but at the same time, he'd grown accustomed to the safety and security of the walker. Using crutches would make it a little easier to navigate stairs and meant he was a little closer to the light at the end of the tunnel; going home for good with a stable gait even if it meant going home with crutches. Ruth had shown him how to navigate stairs with a walker, but typically it is not advised to attempt stairs with a walker. She knew he had a few steps at home and that he was just stubborn enough to try them anyway, walker or no walker, which was why she tested him on the steps in the PT department before he went home for his overnight pass. She knew that he only had about one or two steps to navigate at his front door.

There were the underarm style crutches, the type people usually use short-term when recovering from an orthopedic injury. There were different styles of forearm crutches that are more commonly used by people who need them for long term or permanently. All of them were made of aluminum and all were the same boring hospital gray color.

Underarm crutches play hell with the underarms when used for more than a few weeks, even when properly fitted, but House wasn't sure how long he would need crutches.

Ruth said "First we need to work more on your right leg. I know we told you not to bear any weight on it, but the remaining muscle is starting to atrophy from disuse. Even though you've been doing leg lifts in PT every day, if you don't start bearing weight on that leg, muscles will continue to atrophy a little bit anyway. Eventually, probably pretty soon, we're going to start having you bear more weight on your leg, so we need to focus more on strengthening exercises. I'm going to need to measure you again to make sure we fit the crutches to you correctly, and while I'm doing that, you need to do leg lifts. I want you to do three sets of ten leg lifts. After that we'll start on the crutches. Tomorrow morning we'll start off with leg lifts too, adding a half-pound weight on your ankle. It'll be tough, but we have to keep the muscles in your right leg from atrophying any more."

House was still flying high at the thought of getting rid of the walker, and dove headfirst into the leg lifts.

After the first set of ten, beads of sweat stood out on his forehead. He soldiered on, though.

After the second set of ten, the pit stains on his tee shirt were very apparent. He soldiered on.

Ruth watched him closely. He had a death grip on the wheel chair arms, but when she asked him after the second set what his pain level was, he said "I'm dealing." After the third set of ten, he said quietly, almost as though he was ashamed, "I need something more for pain before I try the crutches. My leg is cramping too badly. I thought maybe I could work it out but it's just getting worse." Ruth immediately called his nurse. House rarely said anything about his pain, so it had to be bad for him to say he needed something before attempting the crutches.

This time, the nurse wasted no time hustling over to the PT department with several medications. "We can try intramuscular ketorolac, or if you think it's bad enough we can go with intramuscular fentanyl. I know you have the fentanyl patch on. Which would you like?" she asked House.

Momentarily taken aback at being given the choice, and distracted by the incessant cramping, it took him a minute or so to answer. "Lets try the ketorolac."

He was wearing a short sleeve tee shirt, which made giving the injection into his upper arm easy. Moments later, the medication was on board and even if it was too soon to really have any effect, House already started to relax. Just knowing relief was coming soon was enough to help.

"Let me know when you're ready and we'll start with the crutches," Ruth said.

House just rolled his eyes. _Why is nothing ever simple?_

When the cramping let up, he nodded at Ruth.

"Underarm crutches are generally for people who will only need them a short time. I think in terms of stability and comfort, the forearm crutches are best for you."

"When we adjust the crutches to fit you, the grips are even with your hips when standing. The cuff should be about one to two inches below the bend of your elbow. Here's how you tighten the cuff. You want to make sure the cuff is tight enough that the crutch doesn't move around on your arm while you're walking. To stand up, scoot to the front edge of the chair or bed just like you do now with the walker. Put your left arm in the left crutch. Lean the right crutch against the right side of the chair or bed so you can reach it after you stand. You may get to the point where you can hold onto both crutches with your left hand while standing, but that's difficult with forearm crutches. With your left hand in the left crutch, put your right hand on the right armrest of the chair or the right side of the bed. Lean forward, put your weight on your left crutch and your left leg, and push up to stand. This takes practice."

"No gain without pain" ran through his mind. _What a load of crap!_ he thought.

Up and down, up and down, up and down. House and Ruth practiced standing up and sitting down over and over and over again. The first few times he felt like he was going to tip the chair over. He kept at it until he felt comfortable enough with the process to move on to walking a few steps.

Walking in crutches, when you are used to walking in a walker, is completely new. House's balance was off, and he was shocked at how unsteady he felt in the crutches. Ruth wanted him to use a swing gait, touching the floor with both crutch tips and swinging through the crutches with his left leg. It's a three point gait where the person puts all their weight on the crutch tips, swings through the crutches, and lands with all their weight on one foot and the crutches. House found this a lot more taxing than he thought it would be. It was more taxing to hold his right leg up off the ground. When Ruth gave him permission to start bearing weight on his right leg, House was relieved to a point.

Very soon, he developed a unique way of swinging through the crutches, landing on both legs, but bearing 90% of his weight on his left leg. He found that he could touch the ground with his right foot without too much discomfort. Even so, after about 30 minutes of gait training with the crutches, he was ready for a break.

"Actually, your session is over with for today. You can still keep the walker, and use it when you need to, but I'd rather you stick with the crutches one hundred percent of the time when you're up. You did really well today! How do you feel about your progress?" Ruth asked him.

As nice as these people were at Princeton General, and as much as they involved him in his own care, he still found it difficult to answer questions involving his feelings. He just wasn't a touchy-feely guy, and tended to keep his emotions bottled up until they spilled out in the form of yelling.

He took a few minutes to answer the question. At first Ruth didn't think he was going to answer at all, but after a few minutes of thinking, he said "I hate all of this. I thought I would get over the hate, but I haven't. I'm glad I'm on my feet and all, but this whole rehab process is for the birds. I can't stop thinking of myself as a broken down cripple."

He was sitting, and she sat down next to him so she'd be at eye level with him. She looked at him compassionately. Not with pity, but with compassion. She said "Look how far you've come in just a few weeks. As health care professionals, we're usually harder on ourselves than the average person. It's difficult being a health care professional and a patient at the same time. We see things differently. I'm glad you're on your feet too. I'm glad you got to go home. There is light at the end of the tunnel. You're probably only looking at another week of incenter rehab here, before you get to go home for good."

House had thought quite a bit, recently, about what he would be facing after he got home. Maureen had been working with him on facing things one step at a time, but his mind was always in overdrive, and he constantly obsessed about issues over which he had no control. One of those issues was his ability to return to work. Another was the fact that he was going to have to deal with Cuddy about adjusting his schedule, getting suitable parking and making his environment a little more accessible. A bathroom in his office was high on the list of accessibility arrangements. Currently the only bathroom was at least fifty feet down the hallway and, since it was for staff use, it didn't have grab bars. He'd need a bathroom installed in his office. Given the fact that there was no room in his office for a bathroom, this would be a tough sell. His office was bordered on three sides by glass and on the fourth side, by a wall that divided his office from Wilson's.

Those uncontrollable variables were the kinds of things filling his mind these days.

He longed to start thinking about diagnostic mysteries again.

Oh well, one step at a time.


	48. Cuddy's meeting with Wilson

**A/N – Short chapter, but it's a necessary buildup to what's coming next when Cuddy meets with House regarding his job. As usual, I don't own any of the characters from the show. I just own my OCs. Enjoy!**

Wilson came up to House's room after a long day at PPTH. He was exhausted, and looking forward to sleeping in his own bed at home. He hoped House wouldn't be too disappointed if he didn't stay the night on the cot in House's room, but after the trying day he'd had at PPTH, he needed the comfort of his own bed.

House had had an equally long day. Wilson smiled when he saw the new forearm crutches propped next to House's bed. Dinner was still sitting, untouched, on a tray table next to House's bed. House was sleeping like Rip Van Winkle. There was some new rehab literature sitting on the little bedside cabinet, so Wilson figured he must have gotten that during this evening's rehab support group meeting. One of the publications was a brochure explaining the Americans with Disabilities act, and there was also an application for a handicapped parking permit. Since dinner was cold and completely untouched, Wilson guessed they must have brought it by his room when he was in PT. By the time he got back from PT it would have been cold and he was probably too tired to eat it anyway. _Idiots_, thought Wilson. At least they could have reheated it for him. Wilson disposed of the tray, went out to the nurse's station and requested some cookies and other dry snacks that would stay fresh for whenever House woke up.

Wilson was in the process of handing off his last few patients to other oncologists at PPTH. One of the drawbacks of being in private solo practice in the United States is that you don't have other physicians in the same practice with you to help out with your patients in time of need. There are always other physicians willing to help out with vacation coverage and so forth, but it's trying on the patients to have to be seen by other doctors who don't know them, especially oncology patients who are in the middle of cancer treatments. As much as possible, Wilson tried to let them finish their cancer treatments before referring them to other doctors. So he was down to the last couple of patients, and they were nearing the end of their course of treatment. Many of those that were in remission and didn't need close medical monitoring decided to stay with Dr. Wilson. He wasn't really closing down completely. He was just preparing to take a leave of absence and then join a group practice when the time was right. Cuddy was willing to let him keep his office in the meantime, even if he wasn't seeing patients.

Wilson had been pondering the ramifications of resigning his board position and taking a leave of absence. One of the consequences was that his office would be largely unoccupied. Cuddy had said she would let him keep it at least temporarily, but Wilson had a brainstorm.

When House returned to work eventually, he was going to need a bathroom in his office. There really was no way around that. The bathroom in the hallway didn't have grab bars over the urinals. The handicapped stall did have grab bars but wasn't really big enough to be of much practical use to someone who might have a wheel chair and crutches or a wheel chair and a cane. There just wasn't much room in the stall.

Wilson had had a meeting with Cuddy earlier today. The real purpose of the meeting was to finalize his resignation from the board. That wasn't really any big deal – just a matter of signing some paperwork. Wilson suggested to Cuddy that they could take some of the space in Wilson's office, knock the wall out between House and Wilson's offices and build a bathroom. There would still be enough space in Wilson's office for Wilson or any future tenant to work comfortably and to meet with patients, while granting House the bathroom he would need.

Cuddy's reaction wasn't exactly ideal. She wasn't completely against the idea, but she felt she had to point out reasons why that wouldn't be a good place for a restroom. It was almost like she felt she had to play devil's advocate.

"That's a weight bearing wall. We can't knock it down."

Wilson replied, "No it's not. It's just a divider between our offices. I can have a contractor verify whether or not it's a weight bearing wall."

"He's walking up and down hallways in rehab, isn't he? Why can't he use the bathroom only fifty feet away from his current office?"

Wilson replied, "Yeah, he's walking up and down hallways in rehab, with sit down breaks about every ten feet, and a walker or two crutches. Have you checked out the men's room here recently? There are no grab bars near the urinals. The handicapped stall has grab bars but I am not sure it's big enough for him to completely turn around in with two crutches, or a walker, and maybe a wheel chair. If you expect him to use that bathroom you need to have the handicapped stall measured again and enlarged. You also need to install grab bars within easy reach of the urinals."

Cuddy was running out of ammunition. She wasn't really trying to shoot the idea down just for the sake of shooting it down. She was thinking of the money it would take to renovate that space. Eventually, she realized that Wilson wasn't going to let this drop until she measured the handicapped stall in the men's room in the hallway.

Cuddy and Wilson did just that, and eventually she admitted that Wilson's idea was the best course of action. In her heart, she knew he was right. The handicapped stall in the current men's room technically did meet the requirements as set forth by the Americans with Disabilities act, but practically it wasn't designed very well. All they did to make it ADA compliant was widen the door to the measurements of a standard wheel chair. This men's room was not on a patient floor, so no patients ever used it. It was used by doctors mostly, and none of them were disabled. Nobody gave any thought to the fact that there really was not enough room in the handicapped stall for anything else besides a wheel chair. Some people in wheel chairs stow crutches or a walker on the back of their chairs, to be used as an aid in transferring from the chair to another seat. There wouldn't be enough room in the handicapped stall for a wheel chair AND crutches, let alone a backpack or briefcase or whatever else a disabled person needed to carry with them.

Accomodations would have to be made. Cuddy eventually realized Wilson was right and agreed to the renovation.

What irritated Wilson so much about the whole thing was that he felt he had to work so hard to sell the idea to Cuddy. She'd always professed that she was proud of having House on staff there. Normally House asked for 60 inch high def flat screen TVs or surround sound dvd players or crazy stuff like that. House wasn't even asking for this renovation. Wilson was. And it was necessary. Why couldn't she see that right off the bat? Wilson shouldn't even have had to suggest it. She should have thought of it first.

Instead, they had to go through this pointless and crazy charade of measuring the existing handicapped stall in a men's room that was too far away from House's office anyway.

So after close to an hour of negotiating, Cuddy finally agreed to renovate part of the head of oncology's office to build a bathroom. She agreed to hire a contractor and stated she would try to have the renovation done before House returned to work.

During the meeting, she never asked how House was.

At the end of the rather trying meeting, a somewhat exasperated Wilson got up and asked "Do you care how he's doing?"

"Of course I care!" Cuddy exclaimed.

"Why haven't you come over to see him?"

"I didn't think he wanted me there."

"If you care, then I would show it if I were you. I'm not suggesting anything other than you need to show him that you care."

"He doesn't need me to coddle him."

"No, he needs to know you care. I know he can be an ass. I know he could be the poster child for difficult-to-deal-with employees. Just remember, it was your idea to keep him on. If you want him to stay here, he needs to know you still care. He thinks he's worthless now."

"What can I do to help?" Cuddy asked.

"That's up to you. All he needs is to know that you still care. I think if you told him about the remodeling plans, that would help. You don't even have to tell him it was my idea. Let him think it was yours."

"I'll do that. Thanks, Wilson. He does mean a lot to me, even if I don't show it."

"When I said he needs to know that you still care, I meant he needs to know you still care about his job, that you still want him to come back to work. He needs to know that. He thinks he's worthless. He thinks he has nothing to come back to. He knows he still has the job, but he thinks he isn't going to be able to work productively enough to continue to run the diagnostics department. If you're going to see him, you should know ahead of time exactly how little he thinks of himself right now. Physically he's recovering fine, but he's as depressed as he can be. I'm going to start bringing him some cases. I know his fellows have done a fine job in his absence, but instead of taking all the cases to Nolo or whoever else has been filling in in House's absence, I'm going to ask them to bring a few cases over to House. He needs to know he is still respected in this department."

"We can do that. I'll talk to Nolo. It is House's department, so if he's ready to at least do some consulting from his hospital room, we can try it and see how it goes."

"It's a start, anyway. He has PT in the morning and afternoon, and support group in the evening, so lunch is usually the only time he has free. He knows we had a meeting today and he's going to want to know what we talked about. I'm not going to tell him everything. I'll let you fill in the blanks. When shall I tell him you'll be there?" Wilson asked.

"Tell him I'll see him tomorrow."


	49. The Storm Hits

**A/N – CFO means Chief Financial Officer. Most hospitals in the US have a CFO who is also a member of their board of directors. Buckle up for a bumpy ride – this should be a good one!**

House woke up alone in his room, in the dark. He'd been so tired and worn out from the cramping and the first session with the crutches that he didn't eat dinner. Wilson had discarded the cold food that had arrived while he was in PT, and in its place, House found an assortment of cookies, a bagel, and some dry snacks that would do in a pinch but were a poor substitute for a good hot dinner.

He was starving. Cookies and a bagel just wouldn't fill the bill.

The clock said midnight. Should he put the call light on and ask the nurse for some hot food? Would the cafeteria still be open? Did he have enough money on him to bribe someone to get him some decent hot food?

He put the call light on for the nurse, and hoped for the best.

A new nurse quickly arrived at his room. "Hi Dr. House, what can I do for you?" _They're always so damn cheery around here,_ thought House. _I'm starving to death. _

He had to force himself to be nice. "I'm really hungry. I missed dinner. Is the cafeteria still open?"

"No, but I heard in report what happened with your dinner. I'm really sorry about that. They should have reheated your food for you or else just ordered a late dinner. The cafeteria is closed now but they always stock some extra food in our patient refrigerator. They usually have milk, jello, pudding, juices, sodas and a few sandwiches. Let me see what they stocked the fridge with. Is there anything else I can get you?"

"Nope, just some hot food."

"Ok, I'll be right back. If we have any sandwiches, they're usually cold cuts like bologna or salami."

House wasn't sure if she was asking him what kind of sandwich he wanted, or if that was just a statement, so he left it alone and let her go about her business.

She returned in less than five minutes with a hot roast beef sandwich, a cup of decaf coffee, sugar and creamer for the coffee, a carton of milk and some pudding.

House didn't have to say anything because his rumbling stomach beat his mouth to the punch. The nurse smiled and said "You're welcome!"

"Man, that roast beef does smell good. Can you bring me a coke too?"

"Sure thing. Do you need anything for pain?"

"No, I'm Ok." The nurse double checked him, and he really did look Ok.

After eating every crumb and drinking every ounce of everything on the tray, House patted his full stomach and settled in for what he hoped would be a good night's sleep.

His sleep was filled with dreams. Some good, some VERY good, and one weird one. The weird dream was that Wilson took over the Department of Diagnostics. Wilson was running the department and Cuddy was an angel taking the form of an irritating third year medical student who kept shoving wrong ideas down everyone's throat and insisting that morality took precedence over everything else. Saint Virgin Cuddy. Saint Virgin Cuddy came floating down out of the heavens and overruled everything Dr. Wilson said. Saint Virgin Cuddy wasn't even a doctor, but Saint Cuddy would constantly fly between Wilson's office and the hospital administrator, a weird guy named Dr. Houdini? Hourani? What was the guy's name? Well, it didn't matter. Dr. Wilson threatened to cut Saint Virgin Cuddy's wings off because she undermined every decision he made. When that threat didn't work, he threatened to cut a few other body parts off, just enough to keep Saint Cuddy from being able to fly around all the time. It was either cut things off to keep her from being able to fly, or else super glue her butt to a chair in the Diagnostics office. Preferably, super glue her butt to the chair AND nail the chair to the floor. Before Dr. Wilson had a chance to do either of those things, Saint Virgin Cuddy started flying around into the patients' rooms, just flitting around the ceiling, batting her eyelashes at all the cute guys, until one of them projectile vomited all over her and got her pretty little wings wet.

She crash landed on the cute patient's bed because her wings were coated with vomit and she couldn't fly.

Saint Virgin Cuddy stretched her pretty wings like a bird, trying to preen them and dry them off, but the cute guy on whose crotch she had crash landed was a champion turkey hunter. He pulled out a shotgun and peppered her wings with buckshot. She wasn't hurt, but what little was left of her wings looked like Swiss cheese. Poor little Saint Virgin Cuddy sat forlornly yet seductively on the cute guy's bed, disabled with tattered wings, helpless to fly about any more. As seductively as Saint Virgin Cuddy batted her eyelashes at the cute patient, giving him her best "come hither" look, trying to convince him to help her out of her predicament, all the cute patient wanted to do was take one more shot at her bird-like body. Then he could have Roast Angel for dinner.

BAM! went the shotgun in his dream, and House jolted awake.

It was four AM. He had managed to sleep four uninterrupted hours. He looked around, surprised that Wilson wasn't there. And damn, his bladder was full. He knew drinking cola and coffee at midnight was not a good idea. He knew if he got up to go to the bathroom, the chances of him getting to go back to sleep afterward were pretty dim. Someone would show up to draw blood, since they had to do that before 5 am, and he'd be too awake to go back to sleep anyway. Hmm. _Pee in the bottle here and stay in bed, or get up and bang the crutches around in the bathroom? _As tempting as it was to stay in bed and pee in the bottle (the plastic urinal) hanging on his bed, the idea of having to look at and smell his pee in the bottle until someone came to empty it was not at all appealing. At least he didn't have a roommate to risk waking up with all the clanging and banging with the crutches. He was still not entirely used to the crutches. It would take time. But his bladder wasn't giving him any time. He was in a hurry. He put the call light on again for the nurse, because he wasn't at all sure he could make it to the bathroom without winding up on the floor, but at the same time his bladder couldn't wait for the nurse to arrive. The nurse was quick to arrive but his bladder was even quicker. He had to chance it on his own. The nurse arrived quickly and found him already three quarters of the way to his bathroom.

She said to his back, "Need any help? I'll wait out here if you don't need any help."

"I'm in a hurry. You can wait. I mean, it's okay to wait for me outside the bathroom," House said over his shoulder as he thump, thump, thumped loudly into the toilet and banged the door shut.

The next sound the nurse heard was a long, drawn out "Aaaaahhhhhhh….." and the sound of water running from a flushing toilet.

"Need help?" the nurse asked.

The door popped open and a goofy, smiling House appeared, cracking "Damn, that feels good!"

The nurse moved to his side preparing to hold on to him for support. He really did not look steady or stable in the crutches, but he motioned her away when she offered a hand to help steady him.

"Walk behind me and don't hold on," he ordered. "I'm never going to get the hang of these stupid things if people keep trying to hang on to me."

A lot of crutch banging, unsteady teetering and thumping followed by some soft cussing ensued as he made his way back to the bed. Walking straight forward in the crutches was enough of a problem without having to think about carrying things. He hadn't become as one with the crutches yet. They were still inconveniences, things that got in the way, making it impossible to walk and hold on to anything else at the same time. Try limping around with two crutches trying to keep your weight mostly off of one leg, and carry something you need at the same time. It isn't easy. At least with a walker, you can attach a basket or a bag to the front of the walker to carry things.

House found that out the hard way. It seemed like everything he had to learn lately came the hard way.

The last time he'd been in the bathroom, he left one of his journals in there. This time he wanted to take the journal back to bed with him. Hmmm. Forearm crutches tie up both of your hands. Nobody had told him how to manipulate crutches and carry things at the same time; probably because it isn't exactly the safest thing to do, especially when first learning how to use crutches. He stood there in the doorway of the bathroom looking at the nurse, and at the same time trying to figure out how he was going to get back to bed with the two crutches and his journal. He felt stupid asking the nurse to pick the journal up from where it had dropped on the bathroom floor. Ick. But he wanted the journal. He looked from the nurse to the journal and back again, trying to figure out what to do.

The nurse saw what he was looking at and picked the journal up for him.

"When you get back to bed, I'll show you a quick tip you can use for carrying light things like this."

Relieved at not having to ask what he perceived to be a stupid question, House continued on his awkward way back to bed. He basically fell on the bed; not because he was tired or weak, but because the stupid crutches kept getting in the way and banging into everything. Sooner or later he would become more coordinated with them but for now, it seemed like everywhere he went with them it was like bumper cars. Bumping the crutches into things and knocking a few things over seemed inevitable.

Once he was safely sitting on the side of the bed, the nurse showed him a trick.

"Take a small plastic shopping bag; one of those recyclable plastic grocery bags works really well for this. You can't carry anything heavy in it. This is for carrying small light items, like mail or a magazine or something light like that. Take both handles of the bag and loop them over the hand grip on the crutch. The bag won't be in your way and it's high enough off the ground not to be a safety hazard. If you try to carry anything heavier than a magazine in it, it'll throw your balance off and possibly knock the crutch out from under you. Use the little grocery bag for light things like your journal there." The nurse spoke kindly and professionally, and was honestly glad she had a practical suggestion that he could use.

"Thanks. How do I carry heavier stuff? This sounds so stupid but where I work, I need to have my laptop and at least one patient chart with me all the time. How am I going to manage by myself if I have to bang these damn crutches around constantly? I mean, I know people use crutches temporarily, but if I have to use these damn things permanently…."

"Once you get steady enough on the crutches, they can start having you work in PT with a backpack. And when you move on to a cane, one hand will be free."

"You talk like you know for sure I'll even be able to use a cane. How do you know? I'm staggering around here like a freaking Frankenstein, and that's with two crutches." House looked her square in the eye like he was just daring her to say something foolish.

"That's been the plan all along," she said honestly. "You might not be ready for a cane when you're discharged from the hospital, but you'll continue outpatient PT, and the goal is and always has been for you to graduate to less and less support as time goes on and the surrounding muscle gets stronger. Right now, from what I've read in your chart, it's realistic to expect that you will be proficient on a cane in a few weeks. Try to stay positive about it."

_Try to stay positive about it._ That was the sentence he latched on to, but for all the wrong reasons. _How can I stay positive about this._ Realistically, he knew that he was going to have to change his negative, morose thinking. He was going to have to force himself to be more positive about this whole experience. All his life, things had always come so easily to him. He was brilliant, creative, funny, and confident. Now he had very few chances to express his creativity or intelligence, and to all the other staff, he was just another patient. It wasn't like people were beating down the doors bringing any medical cases to him – interesting or not, it would have been nice to have some intellectually challenging medical puzzle to keep his mind occupied with something interesting. He wasn't on staff at Princeton General so he couldn't have consulted on patients at PG anyway, even if anyone had brought him any consults. His fellows must have been handling things pretty well under Dr. Nolo at PPTH or else they would have sought his advice. Either that or else Wilson and Cuddy were good at running interference. _A mind is a terrible thing to waste, _House mused. _Especially one hopped up on fentanyl._

Today was getting off to pretty much the same start as most days recently. Lying awake in the bed with nothing else to do besides listen to the nurse, he found that some of what she said pretty much went in one ear and out the other. They say that boredom exacerbates depression. To say that House was bored was quite an understatement. The nurse left and the next fun thing to look forward to was the morning blood draw. They weren't drawing his blood every day anymore, but he still needed blood draws every other day to keep a close watch on his kidneys, heart and anticoagulation.

House was on a powerful cocktail of medications, including fentanyl for pain, with ever increasing supplemental doses of ketorolac for breakthrough pain, aspirin and coumadin for anticoagulation to prevent more clots, and recently a new medication had been added. Due to the risk of a GI bleed from all the anticoagulation, he had been prescribed omeprazole and famotidine. To add to the mix further, Dr. Smith had briefly mentioned to House that he needed a psych consult for treatment of probable PTSD or depression, which would probably require an antidepressant. Medications were dispensed at regular intervals during the day and House had become accustomed to staring at the clock and predicting that at 9 am sharp, some un-named person would march into his room or into the physical therapy room with a cup full of pills. At first he would examine each pill, identifying each and querying the nurses incessantly about why he was taking each one. He already knew why he was taking them. He just wanted to make sure the nurses did too. Now, however, he really didn't care. He just opened his mouth and dumped them all in, sight unseen. They could have put pill-shaped rocks in there and he wouldn't have known or cared.

After the pre-5 am morning blood draw, he laid awake waiting and planning on how he was going to bathe and dress. Undressing, bathing and dressing again was very time consuming again. He'd become accustomed to the routine of dressing and bathing while he was in the wheel chair and then again when using the walker, but now that he was on crutches, things became more difficult again. House had it set in his mind that once he graduated to crutches, he would just grab the crutches and fly with them. After one session in PT with the crutches, he was nowhere near confident with them. Nobody is after one session. But that wasn't good enough for House. A lot of the loud banging and cursing that accompanied his crutch use arose from the fact that House was slamming the crutches around out of pure frustration. A task that he thought would be easy turned out to be much more physically challenging and taxing than he thought it would be.

As he laid in bed planning how he was going to bathe and dress, someone arrived with his breakfast tray. This time he wolfed it all down while it was hot. _Who eats breakfast at 6 am?_ _I can't wait until I go home and I can sleep as late as I want._

Then it was 7 am, and time for the nursing shift to change. The night shift nurse rounded with the day shift nurse. The two nurses popped in to check on House during report, and House groaned. The day shift nurse was that same weird guy he'd met before, Ronald Major. They asked him how he was doing, and he just stared at the ceiling silently.

Predictably enough, at about 8 am, an aide arrived to take him to his morning physical therapy appointment. Wilson walked in to House's room in time to hear what sounded like an argument.

"Take me to therapy in the wheel chair. I'm too tired and sore to walk down there."

"Dr. House, that's not the plan. I was told you should walk to therapy."

"Either I go in the wheel chair or I don't go at all. I'm tired."

"I need to call Ruth then. I was told not to transport you in the wheel chair. I'm not being a jerk about this. I'm just doing what I was told."

"I don't want to look like Frankenstein lurching and banging around in the hallway in front of all the other doctors and everyone else. Please let me go in the wheel chair. I promise I'll work with the crutches in therapy but I can't stumble and lurch around in the hallway in front of all these strangers. I look like an idiot."

Wilson looked at the aide, silently begging her to just do what House asked.

She relented. "I'm really not supposed to do this, but you need your therapy. I don't mind taking you over there in the chair."

House let out a huge sigh and smiled. "Thank you."

When the trio arrived in the PT department, Ruth kindly asked Wilson to step out. Privately, out of House's earshot, she said to Wilson "I know you're concerned about his attitude. I am too. It's nothing personal, but I don't think we need an audience today. I know you're trying to help. Why don't you go get some coffee or something, and we'll see you in about an hour."

Alone in a fairly private corner of the physical therapy gym, Ruth let House stay in the wheel chair for a little while. She sat down in front of him so they could address each other on eye level.

"So what's up?" she smiled.

"I don't know." Not a helpful answer, but he couldn't bring himself to tell her the real problem.

"One session with the crutches doesn't make anyone an expert. Feelings of self-consciousness are normal. It doesn't mean give up and go back to the wheel chair."

"I'm in a lot more pain with the crutches. Fentanyl is not doing the trick consistently anymore."

"You play the piano. Have you ever played in recitals?"

House looked at her like she was nuts. "No… why?"

"Have you ever played in public?"

"Not really. I mostly play for myself." _Where is she going with this?_

"Ok. You're a very analytical person with high expectations of yourself and everyone else. I assume that I can extrapolate from that that you also have high expectations of your musical abilities. Do you play Brahms' Waltz in A Flat Major?"

Confused, House answered "Yes, of course. I taught myself to play that when I was a kid."

"How many times did you have to repeat it from start to finish before you played it proficiently?"

House had been playing it for so many years that he had no idea how long it took him to learn it initially. "I have no idea."

"There are several ways of learning new pieces of music. Some people read sheet music and stumble through the entire song from start to finish, repeating the entire song until they've learned it. Some people break the song down into phrases and learn the song one phrase at a time. How do you learn new songs?"

_Ok, I see where she's going here._ House thought for a few minutes before replying. "I can read sheet music, but usually I learn faster by listening to a recording and breaking it down into phrases. I repeat each phrase until I learn that phrase."

"And no matter which method is used to learn a piece of music, it takes time and we make a ton of mistakes while we're learning it," Ruth said.

"The difference is I don't play in public. I can make all the mistakes I want at home by myself and it doesn't make any difference."

"But it does, doesn't it? I bet every mistake you make while learning a song drives you nuts. Sometimes that's what drives people to repeat it over and over again until they can play it proficiently. The desire to be able to play the piece proficiently without making mistakes."

House just stared silently at his feet.

"Look at me. Rehab is the same way. You would feel just as self-conscious learning how to use crutches at home. I don't think it really matters whether or not there are strangers around. Working through your feelings takes just as much time. But it is possible. Don't give up, and don't compare yourself to anyone else. In the support group, remember that everyone goes through their prescribed rehab at a different pace. Some people fly through the process of rehab, some take longer. There is no 'proper' time frame for adjusting to rehab. We let people take as much time as they need. Remember, you'll be continuing rehab after you go home, so take it at your own speed. There's no need to rush things. I just don't want you taking any steps backward and I'm sure you don't want to do that either."

"Yeah, that makes sense, but this is still the hardest thing I've ever had to do in my life and I still feel like a failure at the crutches. Honestly I thought I'd have progressed a lot farther by now than I have. I'll work at it, though."

The rest of the morning physical therapy session went pretty much uneventfully. House did his leg lifts as prescribed and managed a few laps around the physical therapy gym in the crutches, with Ruth walking close behind him. House had to admit that during this second session with the crutches, he was beginning to get the hang of them. He was still a bit awkward with them, and it wouldn't be a good idea to be anywhere close to floor-length lamps yet, but he was beginning to develop a sort of rhythm to his swinging gait. He found that as long as he stayed in rhythm, it wasn't quite as taxing on his upper body. Either that or the strengthening exercises were beginning to have some effect.

At about 9:30 am, Wilson showed up at the door to the physical therapy gym. House had worked up quite a sweat and looked honest to god SEXY in that tee shirt with the sopping wet pit stains. It took Wilson's breath away.

House noticed Wilson staring at him. "So, what, is my fly open or something?"

Wilson stuttered, "No, no, but…." and he couldn't continue that sentence in public.

"I guess you're done with this morning's therapy, huh?"

"Yep. Fat lot of good my morning shower did me. I need another one."

"Yeah. Cuddy's coming for lunch. I just got a text from her. She's picking up White Castles. She wants to know what you want."

"Oh shit. Well, from White Castle I want a chocolate shake, four cheeseburgers, a large side order of onion rings and a large iced tea. From Cuddy, well, that's a different story," House said with furrowed brow.

"Are you walking back to your room or do you want a ride in that thing?" Wilson said, pointing to the wheel chair.

House looked back at Ruth and said "I'll use the crutches. Don't let me smash your toes though."

On their way back to his room, House stopped for a moment at one of the benches in the hallway. He didn't so much need a rest as he needed an answer to a question. It couldn't wait until he got back to his room. "What does Cuddy want?"

"I think she wants to update you on how your department is doing and I think she wants to get some idea what your plans are for returning to work," Wilson answered truthfully.

"You mean you two haven't plotted out my course already?" House shot back. "I really don't want to see her if all she wants to know is when I'm coming back to work."

"We have met. She called the meeting. It wasn't about you, it was about me, but yes, your name did come up. She wants to knock out the wall between our offices and use some of the extra space to build a bathroom for you." Wilson didn't mention the part about the remodeling plans being his idea.

House looked at Wilson with a look that said _I don't believe this. _"Somehow or another I don't think I believe that. If she were really so concerned about me that she'd be willing to remodel the offices, she'd have come to see me sooner and it wouldn't be necessary for her to invent some kind of cover story."

House lurched back to his feet. Wilson was learning quickly to watch his own feet whenever House was on the crutches. "Well, I guess I should put something on that doesn't have wet pit stains on it. Let's go."

Back in House's room, it was clear that if he was going to be showered and wearing something clean by the time Cuddy arrived, Wilson would probably have to help. But Wilson was learning to adopt a hands-off approach to helping House. Seeing that House was moving extra slowly in the crutches, Wilson said "You need another shower. Want me to get some clean clothes out for you while you're in there?" It was a kind way of offering help without shoving it down House's throat. House was a lot more likely to accept help when it was offered like this.

"Sure. You need your mommy fix anyway. Could you walk behind me going into the shower? I'm not too good yet on these things," he said, looking down at the crutches.

"You got it!" Wilson exclaimed, moving quickly to get behind House. House's leg was obviously hurting and it was apparent by the lack of rhythm in his gait. Wilson was already beginning to notice that when House wasn't in pain, he had a pretty good rhythm with the crutches and didn't seem to exert a lot of effort with them. When House was in pain, that's when the crutches started making a whole lot more noise and he lost the rhythm in his gait.

After House was safely seated on the shower chair, Wilson excused himself and let House take over undressing and showering. He could do that and a lot more things independently. There was no longer much of a need to hover. As much as it was in his nature to hover, he was learning that life with House was a lot more pleasant when he reined in his desire to act like a mother hen.

While House was in the bathroom, Wilson called out through the closed door, "I think we should call Dr. Anderson." It was a statement, not a question. House couldn't say no if it wasn't a question.

"Yeah, so do I."

"'Cause you can't come home needing ketorolac injections."

"I know that," House replied over the noise of the shower. "We can talk about it when I get out from the shower!"

About half an hour later, House emerged from the bathroom wearing nothing but a towel around his waist and a lopsided grin. "Feels good being clean!"

Wilson silently berated himself for being so turned on at such an inopportune time.

"Don't get excited." The smile didn't last long. "I'm worried about what Cuddy's going to say."

"Let's deal with one thing at a time. Why don't you get dressed and I'll call Dr. Anderson," Wilson replied. "I'm worried about what Cuddy's going to say too, but all we can do is deal with it when she gets here."

Wilson turned his back to grab his cell phone, but he could still see House out of the corner of his eye and for a quick second he saw the scar when House dropped the towel to get dressed. He'd seen that scar plenty of times and it still made his heart break every time. He was going to have to get over that reaction if he was going to be of any help to House. House didn't need anyone feeling sorry for him even if he sometimes acted like he did.

Wilson turned back around to face House after he completed his call to Dr. Anderson. Nothing was secret. Wilson told Anderson that House needed several ketorolac injections to manage pain that was breaking through the fentanyl. House was trying to pull on a pair of long pants and not having much luck at the task.

"House, just wear the shorts I put out."

"I don't want Cuddy to see my leg."

"Dr. Anderson needs to see it though. And the shorts are long enough that they'll cover the scar. Hey, I got those cute red shorts and the red Aerosmith tee shirt out for you; the one with Stephen Tyler's name on it. You'll be the envy of everyone on this floor."

"I don't care about anyone else. I just care about you. I know you don't like looking at my scar either."

"House," Wilson said gently as he came over to sit next to House. "It's part of you. I love every part of you. When I see your scar it kind of makes me hurt for you and I'll get over that with time. Feelings are normal and healthy."

"God, she's here!" House said with a start as he looked up at the statuesque woman standing in his doorway in her pencil skirt, "do me" blouse and pumps. Wilson just looked at her and said "So she is. Hi, Lisa." _Yeah, it's true. Now blab it all over the hospital, Lisa. House and I are more than just friends,_ thought Wilson.

Cuddy was clearly out of her element here. She had no children and wasn't close with her own mother, and hadn't had any experience with ill family members or close friends. She had not seen House since the beginning of this ordeal. She had convinced herself that he was better off without her there, but in reality the only person she was trying to protect was herself. She clearly wasn't sure how to act around him in this situation, so she took the easy way out and just stayed away.

Circumstances had now more or less forced this meeting. The board of directors at PPTH was putting more and more pressure on her to close the Department of Diagnostics until House was able to come back full time. For any given month, it was either the most expensive department to run or close to that. Their patient load was relatively light – House and his fellows rarely took more than one patient at a time. They spent thousands, if not millions, of dollars on innovative tests and procedures, and quite often House's patients had no insurance or were underinsured. Those few who had good health insurance plans often ran into brick walls when their insurance companies refused to pay for experimental or extremely unorthodox procedures. Nine times out of ten, the hospital had to eat the costs incurred by the Department of Diagnostics. They were a point of pride for the hospital and at the same time they were an enormous drain on the hospital's financial resources.

Nobody liked Nolo. It took him twice as long to arrive at the correct diagnosis because he didn't like or trust House's fellows. He did a good job, did everything by the book and ethically correct and it took him so long to arrive at the proper diagnosis for their unusual cases that there didn't seem to be any additional benefit to having him run the Department of Diagnostics. Cuddy asked him to take over temporarily not knowing how long House would be out. Hiring another interim department head for the Department of Diagnostics wasn't easy because no other hospitals in the Northeastern US had a Department of Diagnostics. The reason why PPTH's Department of Diagnostics run by House was such a valuable drawing card was that House could diagnose these one-in-a-million cases faster than almost anyone else. And as abrasive and verbally inappropriate as House could be, he was highly regarded by his fellows as an excellent teacher. House not only knew exactly what he was doing, he expected his fellows to earn his respect at the same time as they learned from him. Those who survived their fellowships with him left far better doctors than they were when they started. With House gone, even temporarily, their "drawing card" was no more special than any other hospital's internal medicine department.

Looking strictly at the hospital's bottom line, the board had taken the stance that they couldn't afford to keep the Department of Diagnostics open any longer. Nolo was glad to go back to his own internal medicine practice. House's fellows would be offered fellowships elsewhere in the hospital until House returned. At least, that was the board's plan. To close down House's department even temporarily required a unanimous vote. Cuddy would never agree to that, and she felt sure that Wilson wouldn't either. Without a unanimous vote to close his department, the Department of Diagnostics would remain open with Nolo as temporary chief until the referrals dried up. At the rate they were dropping now, with House gone, it wouldn't be long before the department would close anyway, regardless of the board.

Cuddy took a deep breath. "Mind if I come in? I'm sorry I haven't been by to see you before now."

She had to bite her tongue to keep from saying something stupid like "You look good" or "How are you" or something equally as meaningless.

House broke the ice for her.

"How are things in the dump?"

Wilson stayed right where he was, sitting protectively on the side of House's bed. Cuddy doled out the White Castles and made herself comfortable in the only other chair in the room. Wilson's stuff was scattered all over his cot, and because of the cot, they moved the second chair out of his room. Cuddy scooted her chair over closer to House's bed.

"Not good. I know how you hate sugar coating everything so here's the bad news. The board wants to close your department until you're ready to come back."

"Your phrasing tells me that you don't agree with them."

"Correct. Nolo is running it in your absence and referrals are drying up. He's good, but he's not you. He either just doesn't like your fellows or he doesn't know them well enough to trust them. If the board votes for temporary closure, it has to be unanimous, and it won't be, because I will vote no. But we may have no choice in the end, if referrals continue to dry up."

"I worked damn hard to make that department a success. You know how much of a success we are. Not only is it not fair to me or my fellows to close my department even temporarily, I'll sue if I don't have a job to come back to." House ground out angrily.

"House, your job is safe. Your fellows are safe too. Even if we have to close your department, the closure will be temporary and we'll reopen the minute you come back."

"Cuddy, you can't do this!" House roared. Wilson became even more protective of House, with his hand on House's shoulder and glaring icicles at Cuddy.

"House, I don't want to close your department either. I'm not the devil here. I'm telling you the way it is. If the board tries to put it to a vote, they will not get a unanimous vote because I will vote no. But if things continue as they are, referrals will dry up to a point where we simply can't afford to keep the department open no matter what I want. None of this is fair to you, but it's not about what's fair, unfortunately. It's about what costs the hospital the least amount of money. I'm not the CFO, and the decision may wind up being made for us by our lovely CFO."

House switched his glare to Wilson. "Do you agree with her?"

"Of course not, but when I resigned as Chief of Oncology, I lost my spot on the board of directors. House, honestly, I had no idea this was even going to come up."

"Well I did. They never wanted you to hire me anyway, did they, Cuddy? Now they have their excuse to get rid of me and you come out looking squeaky clean. You don't have to fire me. Just wait until Nolo ruins my department and we don't have enough referrals to keep it afloat, and then everything I worked so hard for just goes down the damn drain." House was yelling and inadvertently slammed his fist down hard on the bed, jarring his already painful leg into a whole new dimension of pain.

"Oh shit" he cried. "Get out. Oh God, shit…Wilson, get her out of here."

"House, I'll step out while they help you but I'm not leaving. I need you to believe me that your department and your job will be waiting for you when you come back, even if we have to close it temporarily. You have a job to come back to. We want you back."

"And then I have to work ten times as hard again, just like I did in the beginning, to get those referrals coming back in. Only this time I'm doing it with two crutches, on one good leg and in pain. Maybe I just won't come back at all. You can't tell me you're in my corner and at the same time tell me you can't do anything to prevent my department from closing even temporarily. You're the administrator. Administer. Nolo's ruining things, so do your job. Get rid of him and do something to turn things around. You said it wasn't about being fair, but it's all about being fair."

Cuddy replied softly and confidently, "House, I'm sorry about all this. I mean I'm sorry I upset you so much. When you talked about the additional work you'd have to go to to get the referrals coming in again, I hadn't thought about that before. You're right. I'm not sure what the next step is, but we'll figure something out."

Wilson said "Maybe you'd better go now. I don't mean go permanently. Just let us alone awhile. House, I just pressed the call light for the nurse. We need to get Anderson in here too. Hang in there."

House nodded breathlessly, too preoccupied with pain to care or even notice that Cuddy had gotten up from the chair but hadn't left the room yet.

The nurse arrived promptly and so did Dr. Anderson. While both of them were tending to House, Wilson stepped out of the room with Cuddy.

"Is it always this bad?" Cuddy whispered, genuinely concerned. He was furious at Cuddy, but he also knew that a lot of this was out of her control. Any other hospital's board of directors would treat the situation the same way. They have to be concerned about their bottom line. House probably thought he was being taken advantage of because of his current situation and maybe there might be a grain of truth to that, but Cuddy wasn't the one taking advantage of him. She was just in an unenviable position. Wilson was angry at her because he had to be angry at someone, and Cuddy was the most convenient target. Even so, Wilson had to admit that she really was genuinely concerned and this wasn't just an act.

"No. He's on a fentanyl patch. He was wheel chair bound for awhile. Last week he graduated to a walker, and he did well with the walker. We even got to go home for an overnight pass. He did so well with the walker that they just recently moved him on to crutches. He's only had a few PT sessions with the crutches. Before he started on the crutches, the fentanyl patch was doing the trick. He has what appears to be permanent nerve damage, and it's looking more and more like he'll be on a pain management program permanently. Now that he's moving around more on the crutches, the pain is worse. Anderson is our pain management guy and he's good. There are a lot more options out there and I better get in there and see what they're doing," Wilson replied.

"Well, please tell House I care and I'll be back soon. I'm not sure he believed anything I said." Cuddy appeared to be ready to cry.

"Well, he's angry and he has a right to be, but we know you're in an unenviable position. He probably thinks he's angry at you but give him time. He'll realize you're not the devil he thinks you are. Just do something. He always says that actions mean more than words. Maybe let his fellows bring him the few cases they do have."

"I'll do that. Tell him I hope he feels better soon," Cuddy said.


	50. Chase and the case

Rehab chapter 50

**A/N – Woohoo! We're at about the halfway point. This story continues to run a little bit AU. In this story, House had just hired Chase before he got sick and the other two fellows will not even be discussed – this is before Cameron and Foreman's time. Remember in All In, we learned that Chase was the first of those three to be hired but there were fellows in that department before Chase, Cameron and Foreman.**

**The Man from Snowy River is an awesome Australian film. I use it in this chapter to refer to Chase. If you haven't seen it yet, you should. This chapter is mostly Chase and House, with some mention of Rowan Chase (Chase's dad). We don't know much about Rowan Chase from the show, so I made up some of that background.**

Robert Chase was the newest fellow on House's team at PPTH. House's department was budgeted for three fellows. The other two fellows were getting ready to graduate from their fellowship, and were handling cases independently for the most part. Nolo oversaw their work but with referrals drying up by the day, none of them had much to do.

Concerned about the rumors that their department was going to close, at least temporarily, Chase had met with Cuddy to discuss his future at PPTH.

"Robert, I don't want to close his department either. If it comes down to a vote, the vote to close any department has to be unanimous and it won't be because I'll vote no. The issue is that it may not come to a vote. Our CFO has the sole power to shut a department down if it is costing the hospital too much money. You and I both know that there are virtually no new referrals coming in. The ones we do get are uninsured or underinsured. With House gone, the department is literally bleeding to death. I'm willing to ride out the storm and keep the department open until he comes back, but in the end it may not be up to me. Here's the story. As of now, the Department of Diagnostics at PPTH will remain open and accepting referrals. Nolo is obviously not as invested in the department as House is, so with House gone, someone is going to have to step up to the plate and drum up some more referrals. Until House comes back it's going to be difficult to get referrals from outside the hospital, but there's no reason why you can't drum up referrals from cases in the clinic or the ER here. So why don't you focus your free time on that. I want you to get at least one or two new cases a week from the ER or the clinic here, and I want you to take one of those cases over to House and work on it with him."

Chase was the newest hire in House's department. House hired him after Chase's dad made a phone call. House hadn't had a chance to get to know Chase very well personally before he got sick. What House knew of Chase, he learned from Chase's dad. Chase already had a reputation with Nolo of being an ass kisser, but that was a defense mechanism. Robert Chase was an excellent physician with top notch diagnostic skills but he was also a party boy who would normally rather play hard than work hard. He tended to be overlooked a lot, in favor of the more studious, ambitious fellows. His playboy habits rubbed Nolo the wrong way, and Chase recently found himself spending more time doing crossword puzzles than working on cases. The other two more experienced fellows quickly snatched up the few cases they got, leaving Chase with not much else to do besides read.

Robert was elated when Cuddy gave him the responsibility and freedom to drum up more referrals.

"Robert, I know you don't know House very well. I know he had just hired you before he got sick. I want you to drum up a few interesting cases from the ER or the clinic here. If you can't find anything promising, then pull some of the cases that Nolo wrapped up recently. Take the most interesting one to House. He's still an inpatient at Princeton General. You'll need to get consent from the patients involved to have House look at their records. After you get the cases and the appropriate consents, come back to me and we'll get a meeting set up with House. Don't worry about Nolo. I'll work things out with him. You're right to be concerned about your future here. The other two fellows are getting ready to matriculate out of their fellowships here, and Nolo is just a temporary department head until House comes back. You and House are the permanent fixtures in that department now, and it's time you and he got to know each other." Cuddy sat back and studied Doctor Chase's reaction.

He seemed as eager as could be to get started with his new responsibilities. The thought of being able to help resurrect the Department of Diagnostics and, at the same time, earn major brownie points with his new boss, just made Robert Chase more and more elated by the minute.

"I'll see you tomorrow, then. Goodnight, Dr. Chase," Lisa Cuddy said, ending their meeting. Chase literally bounced out of her office with newfound enthusiasm.

Once her door closed behind Chase, Cuddy flipped her cell phone open.

"Wilson. How ready is House to start consulting on cases again?"

"Why don't you ask him yourself? He's right here!" shouted a familiar growling voice that sounded like it was about ten feet away from Wilson's phone. Wilson learned a long time ago that most of the time when Cuddy called him, the conversation was eventually going to involve House anyway, because House homed in on any phone calls to Wilson from Cuddy. It was just easier to put the phone on speakerphone and let House jump in to the conversation right from the start.

"Answer my calls, then," Cuddy retorted.

A few minutes later, the familiar song "Good Vibrations" by the Beach Boys rang out as that was Cuddy's ring tone on House's phone. "Good, good, good, good vibrations/She's giving me excitations" rang out three times before House answered the call.

"God, I love that song!" he quipped to Wilson before answering the call. "But I really should change ring tones. That should be your ring tone. Hers should be 'Hateful Blues' by Bessie Smith. You know, I think I'll change them now."

"House, quit fooling around and answer the damn phone!" Wilson rolled his eyes.

House answered the phone with a terse "Tell me," instead of "Hello!"

The call was private, and Wilson couldn't hear any of Cuddy's side of the conversation.

A few minutes later, House squinted and announced into the phone, "Tell the rug rat I don't give a damn what Nolo says. I don't care about the consents either. That's your ball of wax, not mine. I want one case, not two, and it has to be something I can manage completely from here or from home. And Chase will only report to me, not Nolo. It has to be either me or Nolo, not both." House's mouth twitched excitedly as the conversation continued. Wilson hadn't seen this much excitement from House in a long time. It was exhilarating seeing his friend have something great to look forward to.

More silence ensued from House as, obviously, Cuddy had quite a bit to say from her end. House's eyes were darting to and fro, looking for something. Wilson guessed correctly that House might be looking for something to write with, and found a pen and paper for him.

House began excitedly scribbling notes all over the paper. Within minutes the paper was filled with potential case files. Wilson read as House wrote.

"Tell Chase to call me first before coming over here. I have PT in the morning and afternoon and a group meeting in the evening, and I will make time for him. Yep, see ya. Bye." House clicked his cell phone shut.

"House, there are no names here." Wilson said as he perused what House had written.

"Don't need 'em. These are all cases that Nolo already wrapped up. Here, look at this last one. Chase thinks Nolo screwed it up. Nolo made the diagnosis, ordered the treatment, and discharged the guy. Chase saw the guy in the clinic yesterday. The guy hasn't even been out of the hospital a few days and already he's coming back to the clinic. The case sounds like a winner. The guy needs to be readmitted but Nolo thinks Chase is overreacting." House was squirming with excitement and looking like a child in a candy store.

"So you want to prove Nolo wrong, huh? Have at it. I think it's great," Wilson replied.

"I not only want to prove Nolo wrong, I want to prove to everyone else I can still do my job."

"I completely agree. Have at it. Want me to run interference with Nolo? There's not much I can do now that I'm not on the board anymore, and I'm not really even at PPTH that much anymore, but if I can do something to help ease you back in to things at PPTH I'll do it."

"Let me handle it. Cuddy is already running interference for me, anyway. That's her thing. She loves it. It's about time I met The Man from Snowy River anyway," House said with a contented smirk on his face.

"Speaking of Chase… I can't believe you would hire a guy sight unseen, just because his dad called you," Wilson replied.

"I owed his dad a big favor. Let's leave it at that. I did meet Chase face to face during the interview. He's a good guy."

"But why the interview? You already knew you were going to hire him before the interview. Did you even read his CV?"

"Formalities, Wilson. Leave it alone. Chase's dad did me a huge favor, and I had to repay him."

"Why? Hell, you've never repaid me and I've loaned you thousands of dollars! I've done way more favors for you than one, and I didn't even think the word 'repay' was in your vocabulary."

House shot a warning glance at Wilson. "Drop it, please."

Wilson knew who Rowan Chase was; he also knew when he had pushed the envelope far enough and when it was time to stop pushing. Rowan Chase was a famous rheumatologist who had a thriving practice in Melbourne, Australia. He'd also had a very turbulent relationship with his son, although Wilson didn't know any of the details. Wilson knew that House had a history with Rowan Chase, but didn't know any of those details either. For House to owe Rowan Chase such a big favor, Rowan must have done something even bigger for House. House was so tight-lipped about it that it must have been a bombshell. Unlike House, though, who would never have let a puzzle like this go, Wilson was perfectly content to just leave things be and not push the issue any further than that.

"Ok, ok. I'll stop. Want me to be here when Chase arrives or can I trust that you won't just eat him alive?"

"Mmm. Much as I love Australian beef, I want my employees alive, healthy and eager to work for me. I'm good. I expect Ruth will be calling for me soon, and Cuddy's White Castle belly bombers are threatening to exit the back door. I need to get up NOW" House said urgently. "Move!"

Wilson jumped up from his seat on the side of House's bed. House was slowly becoming more adept with the crutches. Crutch-thump, crutch-thump, crutch-thump, crutch-thump and House was in the bathroom slamming the door shut behind him. For the first time, there was no cursing and no slamming of crutches against everything. Instead, House crutched his way quickly and efficiently to the bathroom. Getting that case couldn't have come at a better time.

After completing things in the bathroom, House exited the bathroom calling to Wilson, "Let's get over to therapy. I need to get this out of the way so I can start working the case."

House stayed in rhythm next to Wilson, efficiently crutch-thumping his way to the therapy room. Taking a seat in the waiting area with the other patients awaiting their therapy appointments, House assumed a new air of confidence, even of superiority over everyone else in the waiting area. Wilson was stunned. Gone was the look of embarrassment, the self-doubt that he had been so full of recently. House had something new to look forward to, a new challenge beyond the routine day-to-day challenges of getting through therapy.

In a way, it was sad that House needed to be challenged in order to be happy. He couldn't just be happy with the small things in life. He needed ever-increasingly difficult challenges in order to feel like he had worth. Obviously, when he felt like he couldn't do his job anymore or when there might not be a job to come back to, he felt like there wasn't much to live for either. Thus the self-consciousness, depression and embarrassment that overshadowed every success he had in rehabilitation. Wilson hoped that the case would be enough to keep House encouraged and happy long enough to finish his inpatient rehab course and be able to go home.

Ruth and everyone else in the physical therapy department noticed the difference right away. Everyone in the department had become accustomed to having to go get House when it was time for his therapy. He never came to the department of his own accord, let alone early. This was a shocker. Here he was, happy, and early, waiting in the waiting area. Nobody had to go get him.

"How's the pain?" Ruth asked when she called him in from the waiting area.

"I need to finish this quickly. Got stuff to do tonight," was the cheerful reply. Cheerful? House? Really?

"It's about a four. They're starting me on whirlpool therapy and Anderson wants to start me on a TENS unit. I'm dealing. Let's get on with it. Time's a wastin'."

"Ok. After you do your leg lifts, we're going to start a little more weight bearing on your right leg. The point is to eventually get you on a cane, but before we can do that, you have to be able to bear weight on your right leg," Ruth said.

"Kind of figured that out." _Duh_.

"We're also going to increase the weight on your leg lifts. You've been using the 2-1/2 pound ankle weights. It's time to go up to a five pound ankle weight on your right leg." Ruth added.

House did the leg lifts with the five pound ankle weight and pressed through the pain. It was bad, but not unbearable. The thought of a whirlpool after therapy was enticing, and even more enticing was the knowledge that he had a new fellow to meet and a case to work on.

After his leg lifts, it was time for more crutch training only this time, he'd be bearing a little more weight on his right leg. "Dr. Smith wants you to start bearing about 25% of your weight on your right leg." Ruth showed him how to do that. "You're going to be stretching your calf muscles more than they have been recently, which is why we have to add more weight to the leg lifts. Your calf might cramp from the added activity, but the more leg lifts you do in therapy the less cramping you should have when you're on your feet. Ready?"

House nodded and slowly got to his feet with one crutch on either side.

House proceeded around the therapy circuit with a crutch-thump, crutch-thump, crutch-thump. Only this time, both feet were on the ground. He was no longer holding his right foot up entirely off the ground. The first two or three laps went fine, but by the time he was about halfway through the fourth lap, he could no longer stand the cramping in his right calf. The thigh was chiming in too, but nothing like the cramping in his calf. Muscle cells that hadn't seen much use doing what they were intended to do were re-awakening and screaming at the same time.

"Stay on your feet if you can. I'll massage the cramp out. Let me know if you have to sit down," Ruth said while bending over as she began to massage his calf.

His calf was cramping so hard that he couldn't extend his foot. Gradually, though, with Ruth's gentle massage, the cramp let up and he was able to put his foot back down on the floor. House found that it helped being able to remain on his feet, because gravity kept blood in his lower legs and that helped alleviate the cramp too.

"Shit, that was bad. I hope my therapy session is finished today because I can't really bear any weight on my right leg for now," House muttered mostly to himself.

"Actually, we still have the whirlpool which will help a lot. Your calf will be sore for a day or two. Now that the cramp has let up, why don't you sit down and I'll get the whirlpool ready."

House gratefully sat down in a nearby wheel chair while Ruth got the whirlpool going. House's prescribed whirlpool therapy was for a 99 degree Fahrenheit bath for twenty minutes. The whirlpool itself was plenty big enough for a tall man to have enough room to stretch out in. The tub had water jets at the head, foot, and on both sides. The jets could be turned on or off as prescribed by the physician or physical therapist. House's prescription was for whirlpool therapy to his legs and feet, so the jets at his head and upper torso were turned off. The whirlpool bathtub had a chair lift mounted on the side, so the patient just had to sit in the plastic chair mounted on the outside of the tub. The therapist operated a switch that raised, turned, and lowered the chair into the tub to move the patient safely. If need be, they could also use a Hoyer lift, a device that lifts patients using a sling. House would be fine using the assist chair on the side of the tub.

Wilson had been sitting quietly watching House's therapy, amazed that House didn't just completely rip Ruth's head off when his calf started cramping. House actually did what she suggested and it worked. When it was time for the whirlpool, Wilson went to House's room and got him another pair of boxer briefs and shorts to change into after the whirlpool.

Back at the whirlpool, the water looked awfully inviting. House stripped his tee shirt off, revealing rippling muscles and a taut six pack kept in tip top shape by his therapy regimen. Ruth moved his fentanyl patch from his lower back up to the top part of his shoulder so it wouldn't get wet. He kept his shorts on, and strapped himself into the assist chair on the side of the whirlpool. With the assist chair, he would not need to exert any effort to get into and out of the tub.

Alone in the tub room with Ruth, House didn't have to worry about other people seeing his scar. Once he was seated in the tub and soaking in the warm water, Ruth turned the jets on to his legs and feet and he felt like he was floating on clouds. Clouds of warm steam. It felt amazing. Every sore spot, every ache just melted away. The wonderful thing about a therapeutic whirlpool is that the water temperature is kept constant through an automatic temperature regulating system, so the water remains at its prescribed temperature no matter how long the patient is in the tub.

Ruth chuckled softly when his eyes closed. "Enjoying it, are we? Good. The water is kept at a prescribed temperature in order to improve circulation and keep you safe at the same time. Warm water dilates blood vessels which improves circulation but it also has a significant down side. When major blood vessels are significantly dilated, blood pools in the lower parts of the body and blood pressure drops. You can get hypotension. We can't let you get dizzy. You need to let me know immediately if you get dizzy. If that happens, we cool the water down so your blood vessels stop dilating and your blood pressure will come back up – then we get you out of the tub. That's the same reason we will always insist that you use the assist chair even when you get to the point that you think you don't need it anymore. If you stand up in the whirlpool tub to get out of it, and your blood pressure drops, we have a problem. Always use the assist chair. People don't usually experience hypotension in their own bathtubs at home because the water in a regular bathtub cools off before they get out of the tub."

_Yeah, yeah, yeah,_ thought House. _I just want to lie here and enjoy this forever. _

Before he knew it, the prescribed treatment time was up and it was time to get out of the tub. Getting out was easy because he was already sitting on the assist chair. It did all the work lifting him up and out of the tub. All he had to do was dry off and change into his tee shirt and the dry clothes Wilson had brought in.

Ruth turned her back so he could do that in private.

"Ok, before you get out of the assist chair, we need to go over safety in a wet bathroom. What's missing?" Ruth asked.

House looked perplexed. "Not sure what you mean."

"Look around you and tell me what's missing."

House looked and looked, apparently missing what she had already caught. Suddenly it dawned on him. "Something on my feet. I need flip flops or shower shoes for the tub. I like this game," House answered.

"Bingo. Shower shoes are best. I just happen to have a pair in your size. What luck." Ruth slipped them on his feet. "Now you can get up."

Sporting a pair of neon orange shower shoes, House looked down and thought they looked like prison shoes. It was better to look silly than wind up in a tangled pile of arms, legs and crutches with a banged up body on a wet floor.

Cautiously, he crutched his way out of the tub room toward the safety of the dry floor in the therapy gym. House realized that a pair of small eyes from a very small child were glued to him.

House returned her stare and realized she couldn't have been more than about three years of age. She had braces on both legs and she was learning to use forearm crutches just like his, but hers were the tiniest things he'd ever seen. "Susie, stop staring!" commanded the little girl's mother.

"It's alright. What happened to her?" House asked the girl's mother, subtly moving his right crutch closer to his right leg to try to obscure what was visible of his scar.

"She has spina bifida. She's had several corrective surgeries and they're starting her on crutches now. She's doing pretty well, just learning how to walk."

Her mother hesitated. Clearly she was struggling with the desire to ask him what happened to him, but she obviously wasn't sure if that was an appropriate question or not.

House enjoyed watching her struggle with her sense of propriety. Given the fact that he'd just asked her that question and she was forthright with the answer, he fully expected her to ask him the same thing. Several minutes of uncomfortable silence ensued before House put an end to the whole thing. "You know, turnabout is fair play. You can ask me the same thing. Contrary to what my employees would say, I don't bite."

"What happened to you?" She had seen the lower part of his scar. House realized for the first time that not everyone was disgusted by his scar. She saw it, and the look in her eyes said _Yeah, you got a scar. So what happened?_ like it was no big deal. Given the fact that her daughter had had several corrective surgeries, her daughter probably had worse scars than that.

Pleasantly surprised at the fact that she wasn't shocked by his scar, or even remotely bothered by it, he quickly answered her question.

The little girl's mother continued the conversation, which in and of itself was most unusual because most strangers learned very quickly that House wasn't interested in talking to them. This woman, though, seemed to sense that this man had empathy for what her daughter was going through.

"Susie just started on the crutches a few days ago. How long did it take you to get so good on them?"

Another pleasant shock. House hadn't quite gotten to the point of thinking that he was good on the crutches. "I'm still trying to get the hang of them, but it's coming easier now. I've only been on them a few days too."

"Are you going to be able to get off the crutches? They told me that Susie would probably require crutches and braces the rest of her life."

Here House was having a seemingly normal, off the cuff conversation with a strange woman about his rehab and suddenly he found that talking about it wasn't bothering him nearly as much as it used to.

"Maybe, but I've been told the best I can hope for is a cane. I lost a lot of muscle in my thigh so I'm always going to need crutches or a cane for support. It sucks but your daughter is young enough that they'll probably become part of her body image, something she thinks of as a normal part of her body." Even House was astounded at what was coming free-form out of his mouth.

"Listen, I need to go. You should come to our support group meeting. It's in the evening and I have missed a few meetings but I'm going tonight. It'll be pretty late for your daughter but if you can come after she goes to bed, it might help." Apparently House's mind had taken leave of his body, because under normal circumstances the last thing he ever wanted to do was talk to strangers and even worse, make small talk like this. As if it were no longer controlling what was coming out of his mouth, his mind said _I can't believe what I'm hearing._

Possible romantic interest in Susie's mother? No. Wilson had that place locked up. He rationalized that this little girl wasn't old enough yet to have her mother's mores instilled into her yet, or to have built up the kind of defenses he had. Ist was the most natural thing in the world for her to stare and not mind being stared back at in return. She was probably elated at the freedom the crutches gave her, and didn't realize that in an able bodied world, she and this big man in front of her were in the minority. Her mother had probably already been through so many medical and surgical procedures with her daughter that a scar on a leg was pretty tame and nothing out of the ordinary. So maybe he had just developed a sense of kinship with someone younger and in worse medical condition than he was. At any rate, he figured he better leave before something even more surprising came out of his mouth.

Turning to Ruth, he quipped, "I sure hope I'm done here. I'm sounding weirder and weirder the longer I stand here."

"Those are called normal responses, and yes, we're done," Ruth quipped back.

Walking back to his room, House looked more comfortable and stable on the crutches. Walking next to House, Wilson shyly put a hand on House's shoulder.

"Oh come on, now. Those last few minutes in the therapy room didn't suddenly change me from the sarcastic guy we know and love to some bleeding heart do-gooder. I haven't changed. I just didn't have the heart to rip the head off a three year old or her mommy," House said. "You don't have to pat me on the back."

"I'm not. If I could hold your hand, I would, but since your hand is otherwise occupied on the crutch, your shoulder is the next best thing. You're going to have to swat my hand away if you don't want it there," Wilson whispered softly.

House rolled his eyes, grinned and kept right on going.

Right on the hour of 5 pm, when the dietary aide brought House's dinner tray in, Chase arrived. Knocking confidently on the door before entering, Chase waited for House's permission to enter before walking in with a wheel chair full of surprises. House hadn't had any face to face interaction with Chase since the interview, and did a double take when he remembered how young and fresh faced Robert Chase was. Rowan and Robert didn't look anything like each other, which meant that the younger Chase must resemble his mother. House immediately took in the rakish blond hair dangling in the young man's eyes, the tie, dress shirt and dress slacks that looked nice but didn't quite match in color. Finally there was the nice, clean, starched white lab coat that obviously had seen very little exposure to actual patients. This meant that Chase probably spent most of his time, at least recently, in an office or library or some such place instead of in a patient room. House had Chase pegged right from the start as a smart guy who was bored and had no problem finding ways to kiss up to people whenever it was necessary. House figured Nolo probably didn't like being kissed up to, and there weren't many cases anyway, so Nolo probably steered the few they had away from Chase and the clean white lab coat was evidence of little contact with patients.

Chase was pushing a wheel chair with two cups of coffee in a cardboard drink carrier, an enormous pile of x rays, ct scan and MRI results, and a small blue folder with a patient label on it. Neatly stapled to the front of the patient file was a consent form signed by the patient authorizing Dr. Gregory House to review the patient records.

"Thanks for the gifts. You're Chase. I'm House. He's Wilson. What've we got here?" House said from the chair he was comfortably ensconced in, rubbing his hands anxiously.

"And I'm glad to meet you again too," Chase responded.

"Technically, you're not meeting me again too, since people only meet once. After that, it's just two people getting together again. So whatcha got for me?" House retorted.

"58 year old man with a two week history of severe indigestion and burning in his chest. He treated it himself at home by taking an antacid every two hours. Two days later, he came to the clinic. Nolo saw him in the clinic and scheduled him as an outpatient for an upper GI series. The upper GI revealed a gastric ulcer and Nolo treated it as an outpatient with medication, a one-pill-a-day gastric acid blocker. Apparently nobody told the guy that taking antacids every two hours meant he was taking way more than he should. And nobody told him to stop taking the antacid. So the patient went home on the gastric acid blocker, but continued taking the antacid every two hours for most of the next two days.. Four days into the illness, the guy shows up in our ER barely conscious. The wife said his stomach pain had stopped on the third day, and he stopped taking the antacids. When he went to bed in the evening of the third day, he was much more tired than normal. In the morning of the fourth day, she couldn't wake him up from sleep. He had white stuff smeared all around his lips as if he'd thrown up something white, but the wife said he didn't eat anything white for dinner and she doesn't know what he would have thrown up that was white."

House leafed through the file quickly and then asked, "Labs?"

"They're in the file," Chase replied.

"I saw the results already. I'm asking you to see if you even looked at them before handing me the chart. If you already know the results, something should have stuck out like a sore thumb." House shoved the file back at Chase and said "Find it."

"What does that mean, 'Find it'?" Chase asked. "Find what?"

"Look at the chemistries again. Tell me what sticks out."

Chase found the lab results and studied them more closely this time.

He slapped himself in the forehead. "Calcium is 15. Wonder why his heart is still beating. He was Nolo's patient and Nolo has been handling it solo. I haven't even seen the chart until about two hours ago. He should be dead. How can someone have a calcium that high? Assuming the excess calcium came from all the antacids the guy was chugging, his kidneys should have cleared out most of the excess calcium. And that doesn't explain why he still had antacid in his stomach the day after he stopped taking it."

"History doesn't say anything about prior kidney damage or diabetes. Redo the patient history, put a dialysis catheter in today and start the patient on temporary dialysis today on a low calcium bath. Then tell Nolo to fire the idiot who did the initial patient history. No, wait, that WAS Nolo. Oh, this is gonna be good!" House grinned.

Chase looked a little doubtful. "They have him intubated and on a ventilator. They've been giving him meds to lower his calcium, but it won't stay down. Nobody can figure out why his calcium keeps going up when they're not giving him any calcium and they're filling him full of meds to lower his calcium. Nobody has said anything to the wife yet about dialysis. I'll get another history and start the patient on dialysis. Can I call your cell phone if I need to? How are we going to handle this if I need more help, since Cuddy told me not to report to Nolo because I'm only supposed to report to you?"

"You can call my cell phone but if you need backup in person, call Cuddy. I have my laptop and I have remote access to medical records at PPTH so I can look stuff up online when I need to. I'll be doing this consult from my hospital room for now. Get on it and get back to me when you have a better history and the patient has been started on dialysis."

Nodding his head, Chase gathered what he would need and went back to PPTH.

"Nice way to welcome the new guy," said Wilson.

"Coddling never helped anyone. He's been sitting on his ass too long," House smirked.


	51. Baby steps

Rehab chapter 51

With a case to obsess about, House was eager to show the people at PPTH who wanted to get rid of him that he could still do his job even from a hospital bed.

Cuddy was one hundred percent sure that House could handle this case from his hospital room. What she wasn't completely sure about, though, was how to convince the board of directors that House should be allowed to continue to practice via telecommuting.

House had never bent over backwards to please the board of directors. The only thing House ever cared about was the good of his patients. Many of his actions, taken for the good of his patients, had the significant down side of being unpopular, borderline unethical or even borderline illegal. Thus, he had raised the ire of many people on the board of directors on numerous occasions. Every time the hospital lawyer got involved in one of House's cases, the board of directors heard about it. They found themselves always having to weigh his high success rate against the high numbers of complaints and lawsuits he incurred.

Now Cuddy thought she was going to have to convince these people that adaptations would be necessary because of his disability.

The handicapped parking space would be no problem since he met the state requirements for a handicapped parking permit.

Renovating the space in Wilson's office to build a properly equipped bathroom for House should also not be a problem since that wouldn't require board approval. As House and Wilson's supervisor, she alone could approve that renovation. Even if both of those office spaces were to be vacated at some point in time, having a bathroom there would be a drawing card for any potential new occupants.

She might have a problem with regard to allowing House to telecommute 100% of the time, though. In the United States there are requirements set forth by various hospital accrediting bodies that mandate how often a physician must physically see patients. Allowing a physician to telecommute exclusively and never see the patient might pose a considerable problem legally, if the patient sued, and financially, if reimbursement for the patient's care was denied because of the patient's attending physician not meeting the required minimum number of actual patient visits. There are established protocols for monitoring and caring for patients remotely and Cuddy would need to research them thoroughly. This was new ground. This arrangement would not be taken lightly by the hospital attorney or the board of directors, and would require careful follow-up and evaluation to make sure that there were no ethical or legal problems with it.

Cuddy was willing to go to bat for House, though. She had found several precedents. Several hospitals across the United States had recently launched remote systems whereby physicians and specially trained nurses at large urban medical centers could remotely monitor critically ill patients at smaller, more remote hospitals. The purpose for this of course was not to accommodate disabled physicians, but instead, to be able to provide state of the art monitoring and care to patients at smaller, more remote hospitals without those facilities on site. In order to remain in compliance with regulatory agencies, House could still consult on cases in order to make a diagnosis, but as long as he was unable to physically see the patient, he could not be listed as the patient's primary or attending physician. He'd have to be listed as a consultant on the case. The patient and/or the patient's next of kin would need to be fully informed and the proper consents signed in order to allow House to consult remotely. It would be tricky, but it could be done.

Meanwhile, back at Princeton General, Anderson was meeting with House and Wilson regarding pain management.

"I hear it's getting tougher for you now that you're bearing weight on your right leg," Anderson started off.

"To put it mildly," House muttered.

"This is expected, and manageable. I already talked with Dr. Smith and I understand you've started whirlpool therapy. I know you're maxed out on the fentanyl patch too. I think we ought to consider adding gabapentin, with an aim eventually toward weaning you off the fentanyl and keeping you on gabapentin alone plus a TENS unit and maybe some other adjunct therapies. Medication wise, though, it's better if we can just keep you on one medication for pain at a time. The plan is to go up on the gabapentin for now and leave the fentanyl alone. Once your pain is completely gone or gone for the most part, then we can start weaning down the fentanyl. With gabapentin, there is quite a bit of room to titrate the dose upward. You can go up to as much as 1800 mg a day, and sometimes higher, for a very long time without suffering any adverse effects. It's generally very well tolerated. So let's do that now. Stay on the current fentanyl dose with your patch. You're currently on 300 mg of gabapentin twice a day. I'm going up to 300 mg three times a day starting today, and then tomorrow we're going up to 400 mg three times a day. Day after tomorrow, we're going up to 600 mg three times a day. Once you're up to 600 mg three times a day, we'll give that a few days to reach its maximum therapeutic effect. You should see much better and longer lasting relief from the higher dose of gabapentin."

"I know you mentioned a TENS unit and I've thought about that too. I've read the literature. I don't want that. They were never meant for long term use plus the skin around my scar is numb sometimes and I wouldn't know if the pads were causing skin damage or not. So I don't want that," House replied.

"Ok, then, we'll stick with the plan to go up on your gabapentin, continue with the whirlpool, and I'll check back with you tomorrow. They don't have to call me but I do want to know if you need any more pain medication boosters between now and tomorrow. Are they talking about discharging you yet?" Anderson asked.

"Yep, probably pretty soon, but I don't have a date yet."

"Well, that sounds excellent. I'll see you tomorrow," Anderson said on his way out.

House went back to his mound of paperwork and his laptop. Wilson chuckled. "Only you would actually be happy to be buried in work."

"Shut up. Got a sick patient here!" House laughed.

House immediately started scribbling notes.

"_GI problems, excess antacid use, hypercalcemia, altered mental state. Diabetic?_"

The patient's existing records showed no history of diabetes, but the lab results did show elevated blood sugars; elevated enough to be concerned that the patient might be diabetic and it just hadn't been diagnosed yet.

"_Urine output?"_

There was no accurate record of the patient's urinary output, but House knew that hypercalcemia along with diabetes can indicate the onset of kidney failure. Kidney failure is a common complication of diabetes, usually when the blood sugars are not well controlled. Kidneys help regulate the amount of calcium in the blood. Taking too much antacid for a short period of time would not normally hurt someone with normally functioning kidneys.

"Diagnosing diabetes is boring," House announced to Wilson. "If this is all Cuddy is going to let me work on while I'm sick, she must think I lost brain cells as well as muscle. As soon as Chase gets back and I find out the patient's most recent lab results and urine output, I can diagnose the diabetes and diabetic-related renal failure. The treatment for the hypercalcemia is what I already told Chase to do anyway – start dialysis. The patient gets seen by an endocrinologist for the diabetes, a GI doc for the upset stomach, and a nephrologist for the renal failure, and I'm no longer needed. That'll be a day or so, no longer than that. Chase better have a more interesting case for me."

"I think that can be arranged. I'm guessing Cuddy is still feeling her way around this new practice of letting her prize diagnostician practice remotely. Give her a break. You'll be back getting the really tough cases soon," Wilson chuckled.

It was evening. House was tired. Chase had come about 5 pm, and House barely had time to scarf dinner down before Anderson showed up and then there was the case to work on. Now it was rapidly approaching time for the evening rehab support group meeting. House had been trying to put this off as long as he could. He'd missed many meetings. He missed one because of going home on the overnight pass, but he'd missed the others just because he didn't feel there would be any benefit to going. He'd thought they were a giant waste of time. After seeing the little girl in therapy and talking with her mother, he began to think maybe he might have something to offer these other people. He'd probably be the last person to admit it to Wilson, but maybe these meetings weren't just a giant waste of time.

As he and Wilson made their way to the support group meeting, his confident approach on crutches earned more than a few surprised stares from patients who hadn't seen him at the meeting in a long time. House turned to Wilson. "I can handle this alone tonight. You haven't had a decent night to yourself in a long time. Have a nice dinner and a beer on me." House shoved a $100 bill in Wilson's hand. Wilson was stunned. "Go. I need to handle this myself. I'll be fine. See you in the morning," House bid him goodnight. "Hurry up before I take that back!" House growled throatily at Wilson. Wilson couldn't believe what he'd been hearing all day, let alone now. It was a pleasant change from the usual grumpy demeanor.

As the meeting started, Maureen came over and glad-handed House. "Good for you! Glad to see you here. What changed?"

"What do you mean?" House asked.

"I got the feeling you thought these meetings were a waste of time, or maybe they just weren't helping you. You don't have to answer me. I just wondered what made you change your mind. It's just nice seeing you here, that's all."

"A three year old girl's mom thought I looked like a pro on these things," House motioned to the crutches. "The weird thing is, I'm more freaked out by my scar than the crutches. She saw the scar AND the crutches and didn't think anything of either of those. The only thing she cared about was how soon her daughter was going to be confident with her crutches. I still feel like Frankenstein. But if a stranger thinks I look good, maybe I'm doing better than I thought."

"Well amen, brother! I'll see you later, then," Maureen said as she moved to greet the other attendees.

From the podium, Laura looked around the room as she started the meeting. Her eyes locked on to House's and she immediately smiled brightly and gave him two thumbs up. After she gave her routine introduction, she took a seat next to House. The next speaker was someone from the Muscular Dystrophy Association, a parent of a child with MD. The parent was speaking on the challenges faced by a school-aged student using a wheel chair in public school. House could have cared less about that. As he looked around the room and saw so many older people who obviously didn't have children in school, he wondered how many of them were bored by this speaker too. He struck up a whispered conversation with Laura.

"Maybe I should get up there. Wonder how many people would leave if I started talking?" House whispered.

"I bet you're a good speaker. I think you'd be pleasantly surprised how many people want to hear a doctor speak from the point of view of a patient," Laura whispered back. "Now be quiet and pretend to listen," she smiled softly.

House decided to turn on the polite gene. He stopped whispering and sat quietly with his hands folded in his lap, looking up angelically at the speaker. When she was finished, nobody had any questions and many people looked rather relieved that she was done talking.

Laura went up to the podium again and opened the discussion up to the rest of the room. "I see some familiar faces here," she said, looking straight at House. "How about we hear from some of you? Let's go around the room, introduce ourselves and say a little something about why we're here."

Laura went back to her seat and started the round-table. House stayed mum for the time being, passing the torch to the next person. After most of the people in the room had introduced themselves and said why they were here, House summoned up his courage and said, "I'm Greg House. I had a big chunk of thigh muscle cut out and I can't walk without these things here." He pointed to the crutches. "I'm also a doctor at another hospital. I'm not here because I'm a doctor; I'm here because of my leg." He swallowed, hesitated, and went on. "I'm not a people person and I wasn't ready to be part of the group before. I am now." House sat down. Tim, who was also there, couldn't believe what he was hearing. What happened to the old House, the guy who drove everyone away?

A few patients shyly made their way over to House. Most just wanted to say hello and that was fine with House. He wasn't really in the mood for a lot of hand-holding. A few looked dangerously like they wanted to hug him and get in some deep philosophical discussion with him, and he used his deflection skills like a pro. The deflectees didn't even realize they were the victims of his deflection. He saw the little girl's mother, too. Thank goodness she had enough common sense to recognize that he didn't want his privacy invaded any more than it already was. Some people are touchy-feely and some aren't. House wasn't. This whole business of wanting to be part of the group was new territory for House. He wasn't sure how to handle all the folks who now wanted to show their support for him. He was perfectly happy, for now, just to be in their company and learn how the other people adapted to disability just by watching them. When the time came, he'd give a more informative verbal presentation, but the time wasn't right just yet. Baby steps.


	52. Wild dreams

Rehab chapter 52

**A/N – rating remains M for sexual situations. Sorry for the long wait! RL got in the way, and I've been focused on other things. House is ready to go home, but never fear, the story will continue after he goes home. **

After the productive rehab support group meeting, House had one of the most restful nights he'd had since his surgery. He did have an order for a sleeping pill to be taken as required, but he didn't like to use them much since they made him fuzzy in the morning. They prolonged the process of waking up the nest morning, and he couldn't work his current case with a fuzzy brain, so he'd stopped taking them a few days ago.

He was longing more and more for a sense of normalcy. Normalcy, for him, usually meant a stiff shot of bourbon at the end of a long day. Since a nice shot of bourbon was out of the question for now, he had to settle for a boring TV program, a book, and pain meds to put him to sleep.

Maybe it was exhaustion, maybe it was the mental satisfaction of easing back into work; maybe it was the emotional satisfaction of finally getting something out of the rehab support group; or maybe it was a combination of the three things that sent him into a quiet restful sleep that night. That plus the almost complete lack of pain. He thought it was too soon for the gabapentin to be peaking, but certainly something was working.

He had wild, vivid dreams. In one dream he was about ten years old, jumping on a pogo stick that belonged to one of the other kids on the base. In the dream, he'd had a bet with the other kid that he could out jump the other kid. Ten year old Greg jumped 100 times and won the $10 bet easily. When his father came home later that evening in the dream, Greg boasted that he'd won a bet with the kid by jumping 100 times on a pogo stick. In the dream, rapidly becoming a nightmare, he was summarily locked in his room overnight by the elder House as punishment for betting money. In the dream, ten year old Greg escaped out of his bedroom window, blew up the mailbox with firecrackers and ran away from home.

In another dream, a college-aged Greg was swimming in a race. In the dream, he was in a triathlon, competing in the swimming portion of the race, and was in a photo finish with several other racers. They swam the Inner Harbor in Baltimore and were covered in mucky, muddy water. The dream ended before he knew who won the race.

The night was capped off with the wildest wet dream he'd ever had. House dreamed he was lying on his back. Women and men alike were throwing themselves on top of him, one at a time. As soon as he'd finished with one, another one jumped on top. They couldn't get enough of him and he couldn't get enough of them. Wilson was in on the action too. He dreamed that he had the stamina of a thoroughbred race horse, and climaxed over and over again, with each person who jumped on top of him. He dreamed that his animal magnetism was drawing people to him from all around and he had no intention of turning any of them away. Little Greg had the time of his life. Friend and enemies alike were waiting in line for the fun.

House woke up the next morning covered in perspiration and cum stains. His sheets were in such bad shape that he was ashamed for the nurse's aides to have to change the bed. For the first time since his surgery, House got a set of clean sheets himself and changed his own linens. Doing that while on crutches wasn't easy, but it was easier than having to deal with the embarrassment of having strangers find his sheets soiled in that particular way.

It was time to go home for good.

After breakfast, Dr. Anderson came by to assess House's pain levels.

"Are you able to function without requiring boosters on your pain meds?"

"Yeah. I want to go home."

"We have plenty of room to go up on the gabapentin, and it's time to go down again on the fentanyl. As far as I'm concerned, you can go home while you're still on fentanyl, but you need to be on a tapering schedule. You were on 900 mg of gabapentin yesterday. I'm decreasing the strength of your fentanyl patch today and going up to 1200 mg of gabapentin today. That'll be three doses of 400 mg each. How's your appetite?"

"Depends on what Wilson brings me," House smirked.

"Seriously, House. If you can't eat three full meals a day, eat smaller meals more frequently. Gabapentin can be hard on an empty stomach. So can the blood thinners. I'm sure you're on coumadin or aspirin or something like that. You need to take those medications on a full stomach."

"Does booze count?"

"NO!" Anderson laughed. "And I'll pretend I didn't hear that. I know you aren't getting any booze here. Booze and blood thinners are a terrible combination. You could bleed for an hour from a paper cut."

"I'm seriously ready to go home. I don't care who you have to talk to. Talk to Smith, talk to Ruth in PT, I don't care. I'm going home."

"My area of concern is pain management. I agree; I think you're ready to go home too. I'll need to see you in the pain management clinic once a week for the first two months or so, and then we can taper your appointments down to once a month if your pain is being managed well. You can't afford to miss any clinic appointments so I'm going to have my nurse practitioner see you in your apartment until you're able to get out."

"Have her wear something slinky and low cut," House fired back.

"My NP is a guy."

"Even better," House retorted.

"I'll tell him you said that. I'll talk to Dr. Smith today and work on getting you out of here in a day or so. Sound Ok with you? I want to talk to whoever is going to be staying with you too."

"That'll be Mr. Commandant, better known as Wilson," House said somberly. "Now I just have to convince Ruth, better known as Mrs. Commandant, that I'm ready to go home too."


	53. Going home tomorrow

Rehab chapter 53

The big day was just around the corner. House had one more day in the hospital and one more inpatient rehab support group meeting. One more inpatient session with Ruth and there was light at the end of the tunnel. Freedom!

Of course, "freedom" is relative. Happiness at the thought of being out of the hospital was quickly dampened by the restrictions he would now have to deal with on an everyday basis.

No more running up and down stairs.

No more jumping out of bed in the morning. He was never in a hurry to get out of bed anyway, but getting up in the morning now required a planned lengthy process, so he would have to allow time for that.

He was slowly getting over the idea that everyone would stare at his scar, but still, he was glad he wouldn't have to be wearing shorts in public anytime soon.

Not being able to go back to work right away would also take a big adjustment. Most people would welcome their allotted at-home recovery time off from work, but for House, being home with nothing to do besides go to therapy was not something he was looking forward to. For a naturally curious, quick and eager mind, boredom would be almost as difficult to deal with as pain. He hoped Cuddy would let him continue working on cases from home whenever he could.

_Focusing on the negatives. I'm supposed to be over that,_ he thought.

The mental white board went up in his mind. The negatives were already listed in an imaginary column on the left.

Now for the pros. _Hmmm…_

Wilson. _If I don't totally screw this up, that is._

Handicapped parking permit. _Hell of a way to get it, and not much of a perk, but still, a perk is a perk._

_That's it? No, wait, there must be more. _House thought long and hard.

Elevator preference. Polite people in a crowded elevator tend to make room for a disabled person so they don't have to wait too long. _Could be good, could be bad._

Preferred seating on the bus. _Helpful when I'm too drunk to drive._

Other than the first pro, the other ones didn't add up to much. It was a stretch for House to come up with anything else other than the first one. The negatives still outnumbered the positives; a motto that House could count on just as faithfully as his other mottos that everybody lies and people never change.

So with a sense of apprehension that he tried very hard to disguise as natural pessimism, House began to plot his life after discharge.

Dr. Smith came in to see him just as Ruth was calling him for his morning physical therapy session.

"Do you have time to talk?"

"Not unless we walk and talk. Oops, I mean limp and talk. I'm due in therapy now. It's my last session as an inpatient and if I'm late, teacher might make me stay after school," House quipped.

"I'll meet you here when you get back from therapy. Just need to make sure everything is set up for you at home and you're stable enough to be discharged," Smith said.

"Nice to know you care. Haven't seen that much of you lately," House snarked back at him. Ignoring the barb, Dr. Smith said "Uh huh. Just remember I make the determination when you can go home. Keep it up. I may keep you here another month."

House knew something was up when he arrived in the physical therapy gym. There were balloons in Ruth's area. _Geez._ He wasn't wearing his glasses so he couldn't see the writing on the balloons until he got closer. "Going Home, Greg!" they all blared. _Oh my god._ Hanging on the parallel bars was a beautiful shiny brown wooden cane with gold leaf and ivoroid inlay. The thing was gorgeous.

"Don't drool over it too long. A manufacturer's rep came out with cane samples. This looked like it might fit you. You're not taking it home because I don't want you using it yet. I just wanted to make sure it would fit you. We can order one just like it for you when the time is ready for you to move on to a cane. I thought this was a nice macho one," Ruth said.

Moving up to the p bars to get a closer look at the cane, Ruth reminded House that he needed to do the leg strengthening exercises first. "Just because you're going home doesn't mean we can skimp on the necessary preliminary exercises. Pianists don't stop practicing the scales just because they play professionally," Ruth reminded him.

"Yes mommy," House replied with a smirk. He made his way over to a chair and put the crutches aside. Ruth put a 5 pound weight on his left leg and he proceeded through the left leg lifts with no trouble.

Then it was time for the right leg. House had been doing relatively well with his right leg lifts. He couldn't manage to straighten the leg from a seated position, and probably never would, but with a one pound ankle weight, he could get his foot about four inches off the ground. Then again, "well" is relative. When he did the right leg lifts, he could manage with a one pound ankle weight but that was pushing it. Without the ankle weight, he could lift his foot about four inches and do two sets of ten reps like that. With a one pound ankle weight, he could barely manage two inches off the ground and he couldn't even get through one set of ten reps. Several days ago Ruth stopped using the ankle weight on his right leg. House was getting too discouraged about his lack of progress with a one pound ankle weight.

"If I can't manage with a one pound ankle weight, how am I going to be able to manage when I get mud or snow on my shoes?"

"That's why I want you to stay on the crutches for now. You'll get there. It'll just take time. Don't get discouraged. On the plus side, we can try out the cane today. I just don't want you using it permanently."

Eager to be free of the crutches, at least for a short while, House crutched his way over to the p bars and grabbed the cane. "Not so fast, Road Runner. I want you inside the parallel bars first; hold on to one parallel bar with your right hand and hold the cane in your left. Lean the crutches on the outside of the parallel bars so if they fall, they won't be in your way. I just want to measure the cane and make sure it fits. If it fits properly, the handle will be at the level of your hip."

House held the cane in his left hand. The wood was smoothly polished and the handle felt like it fit naturally in his hand. The cane was decorated with a thin gold leaf inlaid stripe running the length of one side of the cane, and a thin ivoroid inlaid stripe running the length of the other side of the cane. It really looked like something from _GQ_ magazine. But the more he swung it around in his left hand, the more it felt foreign, like it didn't belong there. He flipped it around in his left hand some more. It still felt odd; like a right-handed person trying to write left-handed. When Ruth wasn't watching, he flipped it over into his right hand. Somehow or another, it felt like it belonged there.

"The cane goes in your left hand," Ruth said. "You should use the cane on the opposite side of the injury. It helps keep your back straight and you'll have fewer back and hip problems as time goes by."

"Well, unless you're the cane police and you're going to take it away from me, I'll do whatever feels comfortable. This feels comfortable." House shot back as he worked his way slowly up and down the p bars with the cane in his right hand. His gait was more lopsided and his limp more pronounced than it would be if he used the cane in the left hand, but the more he kept going with the cane in the right hand, the more it seemed apparent that it would stay in his right hand no matter what Ruth or anyone else said.

"I wasn't planning on letting you use the cane permanently, but I see that you seem to be pretty comfortable with it. If your back doesn't hurt and you really feel more comfortable with the cane in your right hand, I guess you can keep using it that way. Actually you'd probably keep using it that way no matter what I said, right?" she said, looking at House impishly. House answered the question wordlessly, by exiting the p bars and making his way toward the door of the rehab gym.

"Hold up, we're not done yet. I just need to talk to you for a minute," Ruth called after him. House called over his shoulder, "I got things to do, places to go, people to insult, you know," and continued making his way back to his room.

Ruth followed after him. When they got to his room, she continued. "Seriously. You're ready to go home. I just wanted to touch base with you and see what you think about going home. Are you ready?"

"Are you kidding? I've been ready for days now."

Knowing how House could deflect, Ruth thought carefully about her next sentence. "That's good. How comfortable do you think you'll be around other patients and co-workers at PPTH? I know you must be thinking about going back to work."

"I don't know."

"I'm sure you must have thought about it. Tell me what's going through your mind."

"What's going through my mind? Hmmm. So many thoughts, so little time. I gotta pack. I know I'm going home. Wilson's picking me up tomorrow. I'll manage." Quick, short, and didn't answer Ruth's question at all. Ruth considered for a moment and decided to acknowledge the deflection and let it go.

"Yeah, well, that didn't answer my question at all but if you want to talk, you know where I am. I need to see you in the morning before you leave. I'll be seeing you when you come back for outpatient PT."

House rolled his eyes at that. "I was wondering when that exciting subject would come up. I guess I have to start outpatient PT right away, huh?"

"Honestly, did you really think I was going to say No?" Ruth laughed. "Seriously, though. You need to continue PT on an outpatient basis, for now, three times a week. And you'll have exercises to do at home on the days you don't come to PT. No slacking!"

And sure as shooting, five minutes after Ruth left, Dr. Smith came back as promised. House had his back to the door, leaning heavily on the cane in his right hand and throwing things into his open suitcase with his left hand.

"That might be easier if you sat down," Dr. Smith advised.

"Actually, it would be easier if Wilson did it, but I'm not waiting that long. I'm going home tomorrow, and I can wear what I have on now. Let me alone."

Ignoring the barb, Smith continued. "Ruth tell you to ditch the crutches and use the cane full time? That's ok with me as long as you don't put too much wear and tear on your back, shoulder or other joints. I want you to go home with the walker and the crutches too. You might need them from time to time for the next few weeks. That's ok and it's not a set back if you have to go back to the crutches or the walker for a short time. Using a cane full time can be stressful on the back and joints while you're getting used to it. Do you have grab bars in your bathroom?"

"Yep."

"What about the floor? Pick up the throw rugs for now. Make sure any electric cords or phone cords, TV cables and such are out of the way."

"Relax. Wilson cripple-proofed the place and we're looking into alternate living arrangements anyway. It's fine."

"I have signed your application for a disabled parking permit from the NJDMV." Smith handed the signed application back to House. "Take that to the DMV and they can hook you up right away."

House just wordlessly looked at the paper and threw it in the suitcase. One more reminder of what he had become. He was struggling to find ways to deal positively with his disability, and every time he thought he was on the right path, some little thing like this threw him back a few steps. It was just a stupid piece of paper, intended to give him a perk that he was entitled to anyway. To anyone else it would be a relief knowing that they could travel wherever they wanted and have the right to use disabled parking. To House it was another tangible reminder that he could no longer walk the length of a parking lot; that he had to be dependent on the availability of handicapped parking spaces.

"Do you need anything from me tonight? Do you have any questions for me? I may not see you in the morning before you leave, but even so, I'll see you when you come in for outpatient PT. Good luck if I don't see you in the morning tomorrow before you leave," Dr. Smith said.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Go on to your next 'differently-abled' case," House said, still with his back to the door, slamming his suitcase shut.


	54. Early morning, day of discharge

Rehab chapter 54

**I promised my readers an update to this story, and it has been very long in coming. Thank you to those who reminded me they wanted to read more of this story. Here you go! We're probably about three chapters from the end. I have chapter 55 underway, and I expect chapter 56 will probably be the last.**

House's last night in the hospital was long and sleepless, to say the least. Not that he ever really slept well even before his surgery, but he was getting used to a new reality now.

For House, his new reality involved finding a comfortable way to try to sleep. For most people, tossing and turning during sleep is normal. They do it in their sleep all the time and the only symptom they're aware of is waking up in a completely messy bed in the morning. For House, tossing and turning always woke him up if he was asleep, and usually involved some degree of planning. He still had periods of pain at various times of the day, but by and large, his pain was being adequately managed with the fentanyl patch and gabapentin. But he was still struggling with a unique problem. The paresthesias around his scar weren't improving. The tissue around his scar was either painful, numb, tingling, burning, or some degree of all four sensations. Occasionally he would wake up after a particularly fitful night to find a tv remote or pen or something like that under his right thigh and he didn't even feel it. Other times he could lie perfectly still and the burning or tingling sensation in his thigh was enough to drive him mad. He knew that gabapentin could help that but it probably hadn't had enough time.

For that reason, House tended to nap a lot during the day and be a bit of a night owl. He knew that would just make going back to work that much tougher, but he'd already decided that he would go back to work sooner rather than later. It was either that or go nuts. The general consensus among Dr. Smith and the rest of House's rehab team was that he'd need intensive outpatient physical therapy for at least the next few months. A future involving nothing but staying at home and going to rehab was something House just couldn't get his head around. He'd have to go back to work ASAP and go back to his former life but how he was going to do that in his new reality was something he hadn't really figured out yet. To be sharp, one has to be well rested. To be well rested, one should be able to sleep uninterrupted. It's one thing to nap a lot during the day when one is a patient in the hospital or recuperating at home, but if that habit continues after one goes back to work, that habit tends to get one fired. Not many bosses tolerate employees who nap during their work day. Legitimate reason or not, sooner or later an employee who naps during the work day usually becomes an ex-employee.

Then there was the whole separate issue of his outpatient pain management. Almost all hospitals require periodic drug testing of health care providers. On application for state licensure or re-licensure, the question about whether or not the applicant is taking prescribed narcotics must be answered truthfully. When the answer is yes, documentation must be provided proving that the applicant has a legal prescription and then the applicant is usually subject to periodic drug testing. That's true when applying for a new license and it's also true when applying for annual license renewal. Lying on the application is not advised. Sooner or later the applicant always gets caught and the repercussions are horrendous. House knew all of that. He was an expert liar and a good lie was usually easier to tell than the hard, bad ass truth, but in this case, he knew that lying on the application just wasn't worth the repercussions on his career. His medical license was current for the next few months. It wasn't due for renewal until April. But the renewal process takes a long time. He would have to renew his license ASAP, and sadly, that meant providing documentation from his pain management team that he was a bona fide cripple with chronic pain who was in need of prescribed narcotic pain relief. That would also mean mandatory routine drug testing, and he wouldn't be able to get that done through PPTH since medical licensing boards require drug testing to be done by independent laboratories. In other words, he couldn't cover up the fact that he would now be subject to mandatory routine drug testing. Even though drug test results are supposed to be confidential and only available to those who need to know, nosy people can dig around in the online licensee database. It wasn't the narcotic use or the required drug testing that bothered House. It was the very real possibility that now other doctors would find out. Not everyone likes or even has time to snoop through online databases, but God knows House had done that plenty of times trying to dig up dirt on other doctors. Even though the gabapentin was expected to help in the long run, for now, he could not function without the fentanyl patch. Fentanyl is a controlled narcotic that would mandate regular drug testing. As soon as the licensing board knew that he was on fentanyl and the mandatory drug testing had been set up, the possibility would exist that other physicians could find out.

House never had a problem with the occasional use of recreational drugs and didn't care what other people thought about his occasional use of recreational drugs either. But it was a different thing altogether to become dependent on narcotic pain relief just to function and to know that everyone around him would know that fact, too. To him, that was just another unwelcome sign of weakness, of crippledom. Dependence and addiction are not the same thing, but still, many people confuse the terms, often with disastrous consequences for the patient dependent on narcotic pain relief. The last thing in the world he wanted people to think about him was that he was an addict. Now, every time someone caught him napping in his office, he was afraid the assumption would always be that he was high, not that his sleep patterns were altered because of chronic pain. Right now, he could not last the day without taking several daytime naps. He imagined that he would still need to nap quite a bit after returning to work, and he hated the fact that accommodations would have to be made at work in order to allow him to nap when needed and accommodate his new disability and accommodate his demanding physical therapy schedule. "Accommodations" was a word he was quickly beginning to detest. A lot of obstacles would have to be overcome in order to return to work.

His brain was really in overdrive during that last night in the hospital. What would his patients think, being tended to by a disabled doctor? Would his team doubt his medical judgment? House knew that there were disabled doctors but he'd never met any, and he wasn't about to go seeking them out. He kept telling himself that it didn't matter what anyone else thought because it was his body and he was going to have to be the one to figure out how to make his life work. On the other hand, he constantly found himself worrying about just exactly what other people thought.

What would his new life be like with Wilson? Loving and learning to live with someone are often two very different things, sometimes mutually exclusive. Sure, Wilson is a nurturer at heart, but how would he feel about being around House 24/7 at a time when House would need him the most? Would Wilson be just like Stacy? True love means you stick with the one you love when times are toughest, even when that person might be trying to drive everyone else away. What would happen when the time came with Wilson? Would Wilson be just like Stacy and hop on the first train out of Houseville? Things are different when a friendship progresses to romance and a permanently life changing relationship, especially when one of the lovers has a disability and hasn't yet adjusted well to it.

He wished he could shut his overactive mind down for just one night. Just one night of peaceful, calm, uninterrupted sleep. As the hours ticked by and he lay awake worrying about everything, it looked very much like there would be no sleep tonight.

Six am arrived and he'd had no sleep at all. House reached over to his night stand, picked up the cell phone and speed dialed Wilson.

"House, what the hell! It's six am. Are you alright?" Wilson mumbled sleepily into the phone.

"You picking me up today?"

"I'm sleeping in. Yes I'm picking you up. I'll see you when I see you. I'm bringing pancakes too. Let me sleep." Click.

House stared at the phone. Wilson was fun to annoy. Nobody else was. Or wait a minute….

House pressed his nurse call button. The nurses here at Princeton General were nice to him because, for the most part, they could see through the shell of sarcasm. He was just another patient, pretty much like everyone else. They'd learned long ago that you can't help people if you let them drive you away. When a patient "appears" demanding or nasty-tempered it's always a symptom of something else that needs to be paid attention to.

"What can I help you with, Dr. House?" came the cheerful reply over the intercom.

"I need something."

"Coming!" was the cheerful follow up.

The trap was set.

She popped in, happy and vivacious. "What can I do for you?"

"Nothing. I'm bored."

He was anticipating an irritated reply. All she said was, "I would be too. Unfortunately I can't help you with that problem. I hear you're going home today."

"Buzzkill."

"That's me. Are you in pain? Is there something else I can help with?"

"No. Just trying to get a rise out of you. I like to do that, you know."

"Well, good luck at home," she said, still smiling. She turned and left.

House speed dialed Wilson again.

"House, for God's sake, it's only been thirty minutes since you called the last time. Next time you call, I'm not answering. I'll be there when I get there. Let me sleep."


	55. Failure

Rehab chapter 55

It was now 7 am on House's last day in the hospital. He hadn't really slept the night before, at least not very much, and anxiety over his pending discharge pretty much precluded any possibility of sleep this morning. A dietary aide had already given him his breakfast tray, which he declined in favor of the pancakes Wilson said he would bring in later. The coffee on the tray smelled delicious, however, and he relished the scent of hazelnut. Hazelnut flavored coffee was not on the patient menu very often, and when he selected that menu option earlier, he was sure it was going to taste as bland as everything else did. To his delight, however, the hazelnut coffee was absolutely delicious. His custom was usually to add several sugar packets and a little creamer to his coffee, but this coffee was so good it didn't need anything added to it. It was delicious just as it was. He kept the coffee and the orange juice, and let the aide take the rest of the breakfast tray away. The juice was pretty good, too. It was nice and pulpy, just like he liked it, and ice cold on top of that. Usually by the time he got his breakfast tray, the coffee, juice and milk were all the same temperature – tepid – and awful. This morning, someone must have been smiling down on him. Hot, tasty coffee and ice cold, pulpy orange juice. It was funny; one thing this whole experience had taught him was to be thankful for stupid little things like this that never would have mattered before.

Then Dr. Smith and Dr. Anderson came in for morning rounds. Of course, they had to stop in his room before he finished the delicious coffee and juice. He had two choices. He could either make them leave by any means necessary so that he could enjoy his coffee while it was still hot and his juice while it was still ice cold, or he could let them stay and ruin the start of a very good breakfast. Damn. He didn't want to drive Anderson away; he really needed to talk with Anderson. House could do without Smith just now, but it seemed like this morning they came as a package deal. He really just needed to talk to Anderson. Reheated coffee just isn't as good as fresh hot coffee, and lukewarm juice poured over ice is horrible. But he didn't want to piss either of his doctors off right now. The timing was horrible. The coffee and juice would have to wait.

"Hey," House muttered when they walked in. How he envied their ease of movement as they strode in confidently. Another sad little side effect of this whole thing was that House had developed a new obsession with peoples' gaits as they walked or ran. He could detect a limp a mile away, no matter how well the limpee tried to hide it. Based on the degree and severity of the limp, he could also pretty well diagnose the injury, too. He now loved staring at women even more than before – not just for the cheap thrill of it, either. He'd noticed that some women could manage a confident, authoritative stride even with six inch heels on. And yes, he'd noticed more than a few gorgeous female visitors with six inch heels striding confidently into his old roommate's room. They would close the door behind them, too. House wondered if any of the idiots on staff here knew what was going on behind that closed door. Tim was getting more rehab than most of the staff knew about, House chuckled to himself.

Then there were the little children who came with their parents to visit other patients. They were nothing but dangerous for House because their parents rarely supervised them. They would dart around a corner or race down the hallways while their parents visited someone, very nearly running into House on several occasions. It's bad enough to collide with someone in a wheelchair, but tall adults with crutches often can't see small children until it's too late to avoid a collision, and they are much more likely to fall as a result of that collision. Unsupervised, running children were now much more than just a simple nuisance – now they were a great risk.

And there were elderly visitors who defied the common expectation that all old people should walk hunched over with a cane or walker. House had seen plenty of elderly visitors walk without support and with heads held high, looking 20 years younger than their probable actual age. They walked with confidence, perhaps boosted by the fact that they were more able bodied and mobile than the patients were, many of whom were many years younger.

House had plenty of time to study Anderson and Smith's gaits every day as they walked into and out of his personal space. Anderson usually walked a bit stiffly, as if his knees or hips ached. This caused him to walk a little slower than Smith, which was nice for House because when House and Anderson met up in the hall somewhere, House didn't have quite as much difficulty keeping up with Anderson on the crutches. Better yet, it didn't look like Anderson was deliberately slowing down just to let House catch up with him. Smith, on the other hand, walked like an arrogant asshole. Big, sweeping, long steps, with his head up, as if he always had an urgent engagement somewhere else, like a bulldozer, ready to push aside anything or anyone in his path. When Smith met House in a hallway, he usually tried to avoid House. When they really needed to talk, Smith would make a big show of pausing mid-stride to allow House to catch up, as if he was doing House some kind of favor; showing care and concern for the poor cripple. At least that's how House saw it. House sized him up early on. Smith was smart but not brilliant, and that was his only apparent attribute. In House's grade book, Smith averaged a B plus. On the other hand, Anderson loved to solve pain management puzzles, which by itself gave him an A Plus grade in House's opinion. As an added bonus, he didn't have to put on a fake act in public to show his patients that he had an inkling of what they were going through. He didn't have to say anything. Everything about him, from his slightly stiff gait to his thoughtful gaze and the careful way with which he assessed patients told them that he knew about pain.

Anderson's smile this morning was genuine. Smith's smile looked, to House, like it was pasted on, like he really couldn't wait to kick House out. But even after House was discharged, Smith would still be overseeing his outpatient physical therapy for as long as he required therapy, which would probably be for months, House had already come to realize.

Smith studied his patient just as intently as he figured his patient had studied him. He knew he would probably never actually like House. Some people just aren't meant to get along with each other, and people never change; but they can respect each other. Smith had no idea why House obviously didn't respect him. Truth be told, Smith was honestly surprised that House hadn't sought out another doctor to oversee his rehab. For some reason, House seemed resigned to accept Smith's prescribed treatment which was weird, since it was obvious that he had no respect for Smith and could have had his pick of several other top rehab physicians on staff there. Could the man really be that depressed that he just didn't give a damn? Was he going along with Smith's prescribed therapy just to get out of here faster? If so, Smith knew that was not a good predictor of success once House got out of the hospital, and maybe a change was in order.

Smith surmised that House's difficulties were only just beginning. This man who was so determined to drive people away had such a deep seated, poor body image. Body image is formed long before any disability occurs, and it is often further influenced by the type of disability a person suffers. Smith knew that previously healthy people who already had a good body image generally did better in rehab. Their disability may initially cause a poor body image but they generally adjusted back to their baseline pretty quickly, especially when they had good support from family or friends. On the other hand, previously healthy but lonely people who had a poor body image to begin with often had a rougher time in rehab, sometimes not meeting the prescribed therapy goals at all or taking longer than usual to meet their prescribed therapy goals. It's difficult to want to get better when you hate yourself to begin with. Smith surmised that House fell into this latter category. Perhaps the change Smith had in mind was too little, too late, but he wanted to try it anyway.

"Good morning, Dr. House. I know you and I have our difficulties, and I appreciate that you've done everything I've prescribed so far in your therapy regimen. I wonder if you'd be willing to accept a suggestion?"

House looked at him incredulously. _What suggestion could the man possibly have in mind on my last day as an inpatient at this God-forsaken place? Haven't I done enough penance?_

"I guess I should elaborate, then. I think I need to sign off your case and refer you to another rehab physician."

"Poor choice of words," House answered with a glare. "I knew you hated me from the very beginning. I just did what you told me to do because I figured a fellow department head really can't be a complete idiot. The fact that you're 'signing off' on me, as you put it, tells me everything I need to know. You've given up on me; dumping the charity case off onto some other doctor. Quit with the fake show of compassion. You just can't wait to get rid of me."

"I'm not giving up on you," Smith backtracked. "You and I don't see eye to eye on much of anything. It's not your fault. Sometimes people are just not meant to get along with each other. The degree of satisfaction with the rehab physician is a good predictor of success or failure with an outpatient therapy program. In order for you to have the highest chance of success with outpatient therapy, I think it would be a good idea for you to find a rehab physician that you get along with better than you do me."

"And you waited until the last minute of the last hour of my last day here as an inpatient to 'suggest' this to me?" House yelled. "What am I supposed to do now that you've dumped me? Am I supposed to scramble to find a new doctor or do you have some other poor sap lined up to help my sorry ass?"

Wilson walked in just then with an armload of plastic containers. His thick eyebrows shot up at the suggestion that House should now suddenly have to find a new rehab doctor. The mouthwatering, delicious smell of hot pancakes, real butter and real maple syrup was too much for House.

"You know what, just get the hell out. I'm not going to let this good food get to room temperature before I eat it. Come back later."

Anderson said "I know we need to talk, and I can come by later after I see my other patients here. You're lucky to have someone who cares about you as much as he does," Anderson said, gesturing to Wilson. "Enjoy the tasty food. Sorry we had to interrupt. I will see you before you leave today."

Smith just walked out silently.

"What in God's name was that all about? Why did he tell you you needed to find a new doctor?" Wilson asked, matching House's incredulous look.

"He hates me," House said after a nice long drink of orange juice that was now, thanks to the interruption, somewhat warmer.

"What else is new? Doesn't explain why he wants you to find a new doctor, and I think the problem is more along the lines of 'you hate him' rather than 'he hates you'."

"He said that a patient's degree of satisfaction with their rehab doctor is a good predictor of success or failure with an outpatient therapy program. I don't like him, ergo, I'm a failure."

"House, he didn't call you a failure, did he?" Wilson asked, not sure he wanted to hear the answer.

"Not in those exact words."

"Do you think you're a failure?" Wilson asked him gently.

"I don't know," House replied, looking down at his scar as if to say, _Sure I am._

"It's a yes or no question. You're not a failure," Wilson said.

"Look at all these other poor pathetic losers with more severe disabilities. That damn support group is full of cripples who get up and preach about how great they're doing, how dandy everything is. Hell, there are paraplegics around here regaining function in their legs. All I have is one bum leg and I stumble around here on crutches like a pathetic, loser, crippled old man. Face it, Wilson. Like it or not, now I have to find some way to deal with the fact that I'm a failure. The only thing that therapy helped me accomplish was enough mobility so that I can get out of here. Smith should never have agreed to take my case in the first place."


	56. Wilson and Smith

Rehab chapter 56

**A/N – the pancake recipe is real. I use it all the time. At the risk of sounding redundant to those who already know the meaning of these terms, there may be some readers who aren't familiar with them, so here goes: A "physiatrist" is a medical doctor who specializes in rehabilitation. A physical therapist is not necessarily a medical doctor. Most rehabilitation providers here include at least one physiatrist, at least one physical therapist and sometimes more, at least one occupational therapist and sometimes more, and several occupational and physical therapy aides. Physiatrist and physical therapist are two different types of professionals.**

Lukewarm coffee and orange juice were about half consumed, and House was haphazardly pushing their cups around on the overbed table. He couldn't even finish his portion of Wilson's delicious pancakes. Wilson's pancake recipe was famous. The secret, Wilson had told him, was to add a tablespoon of powdered sugar and a tablespoon or so of ground macadamia nuts to the dry pancake mix, and substitute half milk and half cottage cheese for the amount of water called for on the pancake mix package. They come out thick, soft, flakey, and absolutely delicious. On top of it all, cook them in butter melted on a hot griddle – mmm. It was a tasty cholesterol heaven. From time to time, Wilson would substitute artificial sweetener for the sugar when he felt guilty enough about the calories, and cholesterol-free fake butter spray to grease up the griddle when he felt guilty about the cholesterol. However, they were really the tastiest when he used real powdered sugar, mixed in with the dry pancake mix, and real butter to grease up the griddle.

House was on a wild emotional rollercoaster ride; at once excited and nervous about his pending discharge, angry and perplexed about why Dr. Smith would suddenly dump him now at this very inopportune time.

Unlike the way hospital rooms are portrayed on television, House's room was tiny and cramped. The room was originally designed for two beds and two patients, but hospital management had converted many of these semi-private rooms into private rooms the last time they decided to remodel. This was Princeton General, after all, not PPTH, and money didn't seem to be as much of an issue as it was at PPTH. When patients have their choice of hospitals, they almost always choose those that offer private rooms. In the US, private health care insurance carriers determine what they will pay for and what they won't. Sometimes they won't pay for private rooms unless a private room is deemed medically necessary or unless the hospital only has private rooms. So when a hospital only offers private rooms, it can have a marketing edge. House and Wilson both knew that a new hospital was being built by another company in Princeton and it was going to feature private rooms only – no semi-private rooms at all. That was purely a marketing ploy, meant to attract patients. To respond to the challenge posed by the construction of the new hospital, Princeton General decided to convert a number of their existing semi-private rooms into private rooms. They also added a few conveniences for patients, such as mini fridges in each private room, and more comfortable furniture.

Unfortunately the semi-private rooms at Princeton General, like most older hospitals, were too small to begin with. When they had two patients in them, there was less extraneous furniture and the rooms were tiny and cramped. When they converted the semi-private rooms into private rooms, they removed one bed and replaced it with a sofa bed for overnight visitors, and a table and more chairs. The rooms themselves didn't get any bigger. They were still just as cramped. House's room contained his bed, an overbed table, a recliner, a sofa bed, two bedside cabinets, a table, two small straight backed chairs, a closet, additional cabinet storage space for medical supplies and his bathroom. Tiny indeed. Wilson had established base camp on the sofa bed. Somehow or another, they had to fit a suitcase for Wilson, a suitcase for House, and House's wheelchair, walker, crutches and cane in that room as well. House no longer needed the wheelchair for traversing short distances, and didn't need the walker at all so they were planning on leaving the walker at the hospital. He was alternating between crutches and cane. They would keep the wheelchair in case it was needed for traversing longer distances while House was in outpatient PT. Assuming he achieved the goals that had been set for him in PT, there would come a point in time in which he would no longer need the wheel chair or the crutches at all. However at this time, they were still necessary mobility aids.

Wilson sat in House's recliner next to House's bed. Both men were deep in thought, each having eaten their fill of breakfast. They took their time over breakfast, enjoying each other's company despite this morning's rough patch.

"Do you want some fresh coffee and orange juice? I can use some myself. I'll get some fresh brewed from the cafeteria," Wilson asked.

"It's no use," replied House.

"What?" Wilson replied, confused. "I thought you liked the coffee and juice they served this morning. I just thought you might want some fresh."

"Outpatient PT. It's no use."

_Here we go, _Wilson said silently. "Of course it is, and you know it is."

House leveled a stare at Wilson. "They can't replace missing muscle. I'm already off the crutches part of the time, using a cane. The best I can hope for is to use the cane full time. I'm almost to that point now. There's no point in continuing outpatient PT."

"Then I need to talk to Smith. You can't give up on PT now. You know as well as I do that you need to increase strength in the remaining muscles. Outpatient PT helps improve strength, range of motion, and prevent injury to the other muscles that have to pick up the slack. You know all of this."

House said nothing.

"How about this. How about we pick a new physiatrist together? Maybe I can help. I have the same kind of insurance you do, so I'll get online and get a list of local physiatrists who are in our insurance network. The catch is, you have to pick one. You can't just do nothing."

"Yeah. I have a laptop here, and Princeton General DOES have wi fi. I can hop online right now and do it myself. I know how to dial a phone. I can call the insurance company myself," House retorted, unable to hide the warring feelings of despair and irritation.

"Then quit talking and do it. If you don't do it now, you know you won't do it at all. You can't leave this hospital and abandon any further PT. Well, put it this way," Wilson reconsidered his last sentence. "I know you can do whatever you want. Let's sweeten the deal. Put $1000 on the line. Pick your own physiatrist and comply for two months with whatever he or she plans for you. You'll be $1000 richer courtesy of me. The rules for the bet are 1. You have to provide to me a copy of whatever your prescribed physical therapy is, and 2. You have to provide to me a copy of your physical therapy schedule, and 3. You have to comply with whatever they say for two months. Fail to do any of those three things and I win the bet." Wilson tried to hide the smile that was threatening to burst forth. He had House now.

"Oh, wipe that shit-eating grin off your face. You win, at least for now," House said with the beginning of a smile as he grabbed his laptop.

An hour later he had a nice list of in-network physiatrists and physical therapy providers. He was pleasantly surprised to find that Ruth was listed by his insurance carrier as a preferred physical therapist. He would keep Ruth as his physical therapist, and would just have to pick another physiatrist. He had long ago studied the way other countries provide for the health care of their citizens, and the US, with its utterly maddening maze of private insurance carriers mixed in with federal Medicare and state Medicaid funds, was far behind other countries who had various types of national health care. With private health insurance carriers, Medicare and Medicaid and even free clinics in many areas, it was still no surprise to House and Wilson that many US citizens still could not afford any kind of health care. Free clinics can only do so much because they still have to be funded by someone, and how much money they receive determines what kind of care they can provide. And it was even more maddening that a highly paid person like a physician with great health insurance coverage still did not have a very wide choice of physician providers if he wanted his health care insurance to cover the costs.

House was paid very well as a department head, but he also knew that his health care costs were already exceedingly high and would go even higher once he started outpatient physical therapy. Since his PT was likely to last for months, his expenses would be astronomical. He'd even considered cosmetic surgery, a silicone implant to fill the big dent left by the missing muscle, but his insurance wouldn't cover that, so even though it was likely to help improve his body image immensely, he might not be able to afford the surgery. Even considering how highly he was paid, he still couldn't afford months of outpatient PT if his insurance didn't cover it. In order for insurance to cover it, he'd have to pick one of their preferred MD physiatrists. And by "cover", the insurance company meant "cover 80%". House would still be responsible for paying the remaining 20% out of his own pocket. He could afford that, but it would still be a major expense.

And then there were other medical expenses to be considered. House would require the use of a cane or some other type of mobility aid for the rest of his life. He did not know exactly how much those things cost, but he knew they probably weren't cheap either. He knew that was one more thing he'd have to look up online. How much do canes cost, and would his insurance cover them? He'd read somewhere that the average cripple (as he called himself now) might go through over a hundred canes or crutches in about eight years, between having them break once in awhile or just losing them. Without looking up the exact cost in dollars, he knew that still had to be massively expensive.

And medications. House's medications changed fairly frequently, but the ones that he was being sent home on were these: Oral ketorolac for pain, a fentanyl patch for pain, coumadin for anticoagulation, famotidine for prevention of gastric ulcers (because all of the above medications plus general weakness predispose someone to developing ulcers), cyclobenzaprine (Flexeril) as needed to relieve cramping, and temazepam as needed at night for sleep. All of these things were covered by his insurance but not 100% and he would still need to pay a certain amount out of his own pocket every time he needed a refill or a new prescription. He knew that other than the fentanyl, he would most likely need those medications or something like them for the rest of his life. He didn't want to stay on the fentanyl, but he needed it for now.

In the US, even a rich person can be rendered poor by chronic disability.

The mounting financial burden plus the urgent need to find a new rehab MD and the overwhelming anxiety about how to adapt to his new life really weighed House down. He tried hard not to show it, but his anxiety expressed itself whether he wanted it to or not. He was either sullen or angrily snapping at everyone and it was impossible to hide how he felt.

Fortunately the nurses assigned to his care took this for what it was; just his way of trying to deal with stress. He hadn't managed to drive any of them to quitting or asking for transfers, like Wilson had thought might happen. They answered his call light promptly, were courteous and behaved professionally with him. He had to, albeit begrudgingly, admit that he really liked and would miss them.

He'd have one more session with Ruth today before going home. He felt certain that she'd have to be sure he was safe getting into and out of a car. One more thing on the cripple check list that would have to be checked off before he could leave.

"Tell you what. You get online and look for doctors, and I'll hunt that bastard Smith down. I need to talk to him before he leaves," Wilson interjected.

"Wilson, you can leave it alone. I appreciate the help, but obviously I pissed him off and it's my problem to deal with," House said as he logged in to the insurance company's website again to further refine the doctor hunt. He now had a list of names; he just needed to further research each one a little bit more.

"He can't just dump you without at least referring your case to someone else. He could have suggested someone you could go to. I need to talk to the bastard. Don't worry; I won't kill him."

"Ok," House said with a sigh. "Go fulfill your need to nurture."

Wilson hauled his tired butt out of the chair, fixed himself up a bit and headed out to hunt down his quarry. First stop was the nurse's station. Dr. Smith wasn't there, but one of the nurses directed him down a hallway where he thought Dr. Smith might still be seeing patients in their rooms. Wilson mused that if he were House, the second stop on the hunt for his quarry would be the men's restroom. Wilson wasn't above searching the stalls in the men's restroom himself, but he could hear the man's voice coming from one of the patient rooms down the indicated hallway.

Ever the conscientious doctor, Wilson realized that he would risk a HIPAA violation and possibly an assault charge if he were to simply barge into the other patient's room and throttle Smith right then and there. As much as he really wanted to manhandle the guy, he restrained himself and played nice by waiting outside in the hallway, out of earshot of the doctor's conversation with the other patient. A few deep breaths later, and he had composed himself to the point where he was sure he could have a decent professional discussion with the man and not kill him.

A few minutes later, a distinctly surprised Dr. Smith popped out of the other patient's room. In his typical manner, he walked right up to Wilson with a big, bold, purposeful stride, as if he was so much more important than anyone else in the vicinity. "Why, Dr. Wilson! How nice to see you!" he beamed. Wilson wanted to beat the dog shit out of him right there. Instead, Wilson put on an equally fake smile and said, "We need to talk privately."

The two men found the nearest private patient conference room. Smith reached his hand out to shake Wilson's hand. Wilson sat down and resisted the urge to smack the man's hand away. There was no time for meaningless pleasantries. Wilson got right down to business. "House thinks you signed off on his case already. I'm sure there's more to the story. He and I are finding a new physiatrist as we speak. Who have you already consulted with?"

Now it was Smith's turn to take a few deep breaths. He regretted that things had gotten this out of hand. "I didn't sign off on his case. I can't just leave him without a physiatrist. I recommended that he find a new doctor, one that he gets along with. Until he finds a new doctor, I'm still overseeing his rehab. I haven't just left him high and dry."

"That's fine. Who have you already consulted with?" Wilson retorted. "I just need some names."

Dr. Smith gave him the names of a few physiatrists that he was already familiar with. "I haven't consulted with any of them yet. I'd prefer that House make the first move and pick someone. After he picks the doctor he wants I'll give them all the information they need."

"We all know he's facing months of outpatient therapy. Now is not the right time for him to have to find a new rehab doctor. I'm glad you didn't actually take yourself off his case, but I'm also upset with you that he thinks you did. No matter what we tell him now, though, we're not going to be able to convince him you didn't just dump him. We'll go through this list and get back with you before we leave today with the name of whoever he picks."

Wilson abruptly just got up and left. No handshake, no goodbye, no nothing.

e'


	57. Uncertainty

On his way back to House's room, Wilson took his time walking down the patient hallway. During their last round of remodeling, Princeton General had not only converted a number of semi private rooms to private rooms, but on many floors, they removed the bright white lights and bright white paint in the patient hallways. The white paint had been replaced with soft flat pastels. Each floor featured a different base color. The bright lights in most of the hallways had been replaced with softer recessed lighting, intended to accent the base color. Some of the floors originally had beautiful carpeting in the hallways because some nincompoop in an office somewhere no doubt decided that carpeting would give it a homey touch. It is nigh impossible to roll wheel chairs and beds on carpeting; let alone the fact that dirt hides in carpet no matter how often you clean it, and therefore it tends to harbor germs. Not a good idea to have décor that harbors germs in a hospital. Much to the employees' glee, the carpeting was removed. Wilson had overheard some of the nurses joking that when the carpeting was removed, they had wanted to burn it in a bonfire in a remote area of the parking lot some day when the lot wasn't crowded. It was replaced with flooring that accented the new colors and was safer for patients.

Wilson needed to think, and he wanted to give House a little more private time as well; time to finish the doctor selection process. Wilson was accustomed to being teased about wanting to spend time with his "cancer kids" and he took that teasing in stride; he really did find solace in spending time with kids. He missed not having children of his own, and in his new life with House that wasn't likely to change. He and House could always adopt or use a surrogate, but House had enough to be concerned about now. Any discussion about children would have to wait awhile.

He'd always found children's attitude towards life in general and illness in particular to be so refreshing and so different from most adults'. In Wilson's experience, most adults, when faced with illness or disability, focused too much on what they could no longer do. This is normal and natural; adults have a lifetime of history and know what they're missing. On the other hand, children mostly had two things on their minds. They usually wanted to know what kind of presents they were going to get out of this and when they could go out and play; usually in that order. It didn't matter what kind of serious surgery they had, what kind of painful tests they had to endure, or that they might now have to use crutches or a wheel chair to get around. The first two things little kids usually wanted to know when they woke up after anesthesia or when they started treatment were "What kind of toys am I getting out of this?" and "When can I go out and play?"

Older kids were concerned more about when they could see their friends again or when they could go back to school.

Wilson's oncology practice included both children and adults, even though there were pediatric oncologists in Princeton whose practices were limited strictly to children with cancer. When faced with childhood cancer, parents had their choice of pediatric oncologists or an oncologist with a mixed practice consisting of adults and children. Wilson wanted children in his practice; parents and children liked him, and he liked them too.

He found himself on the elevator, going up to the pediatric floor. He had a ten year old patient there, a little girl with osteosarcoma and the primary tumor was in her right femur, just above her right knee. The tumor had just been identified and staged via biopsy, and chemotherapy had just begun. Radiation had been ordered, but not started yet. She had not had surgery yet because Wilson, her parents and the little girl's orthopedic surgeon were still discussing what kind of surgery would be best for her. She needed surgery; there was no way around it. Surgery to remove the tumor was of utmost importance. At issue was whether or not they should amputate. Wilson knew there were limb-sparing procedures that could result in the removal of the tumor without having to amputate her leg. The little girl's orthopedic surgeon was of the opinion that amputation now would result in a higher chance of cure, and less risk of recurrence of the cancer later on.

Wilson arrived at her room bearing a little teddy bear from the gift shop. The sight he saw when he rounded the corner into her room was arresting. This little girl who knew she had cancer and might soon be facing the amputation of her leg had a big smile on her face. Her parents were watching TV in the room with her. She was sitting in her mother's lap, squirming like any ten year old restrained in someone's lap, and playing with a new doll. "Dr. Wilson!" she shouted. "See what my mommy gave me?" She proudly displayed her new long-haired doll and all the hair ribbons and barrettes that came with the doll. She was braiding the doll's hair. "What color ribbon should I put on her? I want blue, but mommy's favorite color is red."

Smiling himself, Wilson said, "Why not use both? You could tie a blue ribbon at the top of her braid and a red ribbon at the bottom. I think that'd be cute!"

The little girl herself started losing her hair, but she didn't care about that and she didn't care about her leg. All she cared about was doing her doll's hair. Her mother had all she could do to hold on to the little girl because the little girl just wanted to run around and show everyone her new doll. Her leg made that difficult, but pain and disability didn't seem to hold her back at all.

"I swear, it's like she's had five cups of sugar today. I don't have this much energy, and I'm not sick!" her mother exclaimed with a smile.

"Mooommmm!" the little girl whined. "Let me down! I want to show Maggie!" Maggie apparently was another patient she'd made friends with. "Not know, sweetie. Let's let the medicine help your leg. Daddy and I need to talk to Dr. Wilson."

"Ok, but don't leave me alone."

_Here's this girl facing life altering illness and surgery and she's bursting at the seams with a zest for life. House is not dying, he's down there ready to go home and his depression is not only holding him back, it's sapping the life out of him. What irony, _Wilson thought.

Wilson really hadn't gone to see the little girl because he wanted to talk to mom and dad; he went to see the little girl to remind himself what life could be like for House if he would just let it. House didn't have to let this drag him down. Wilson wished he could take just a little of this girl's spirit, her zest for life, and inject it into House. The best he could do was let a little of it soak into _him_.

Wilson couldn't just leave without talking to her mom and dad, though. They went out to the private pediatric conference room and discussed the various surgical options available, including limb sparing surgery. The tumor was small enough that her leg could be saved; they could remove the tumor and a little of the surrounding healthy bone and replace it with a titanium prosthetic bone or something similar. That would need to be discussed with the orthopedic surgeon, of course. Wilson wanted to be sure the parents knew that option was available and that current theory was that amputation should be considered only if limb sparing surgery wasn't possible. As it turned out, the little girl's parents had really done their homework and were already pretty well convinced they wanted the limb sparing surgery. They wanted to be certain Wilson was on board with that decision as well. They didn't have much else to talk about other than that, so Wilson agreed he would call the orthopedic surgeon and set up one more pre op meeting with the girl's parents.

Wilson left the impromptu meeting with a happier heart. He was ready to go back down to House.

"So, you wallowed in misery with your cancer kids?" House greeted him as he walked back into the room.

"Nope, I got an injection of zest for life from a ten year old. Hope you found your new rehab doctor. You need to pack up before they charge you for another day."

House started aimlessly tossing things at his suitcase, without even bothering to get out of bed to go pack it properly. It was a petty thing to do and just another way of showing his frustration.

"You're going to pick that stuff up, you know," Wilson answered as things hit the floor randomly in the general direction of the suitcase.

"Cripple here. If you wait for me to get over there and pack it properly, we'll still be charged for another day. It would be faster if you packed it."

"It would be faster if you would go get the suitcase, bring it over to the bed and pack it properly. It's five feet from the bed, House. It has wheels and a pull handle. It's not heavy. I'm not going to pack your stuff for you, so you can either pack it yourself or lie here and wallow in self pity. It's up to you. I'm going to talk to Ruth and make sure everything's good to go. When I get back, you'd better be ready to go."

"I'm on crutches! How am I supposed to manage the crutches and the suitcase?" House complained.

"I don't care how you do it, but you'd better figure out something. You're not dying, House. You're not even sick anymore. I'm not asking you to drag the thing three miles through an airport. I'm telling you to move it five feet from the floor to the bed and pack it yourself. Everything that needs to be packed is already where you can reach it now, House, except for the stuff you just threw on the floor. Get the suitcase and pack it and I'll be back."

Wilson turned his back to House and walked out with a big grin.

From just outside the room, Wilson could hear House put on the call bell for the nurse.

"May I help you, Dr. House?" came the polite voice over the intercom.

"I need help packing my suitcase. They're letting me go home today."

A few minutes later, an aide House hadn't met yet arrived at House's room. "Way to go! I hear you're going home." The aide moved some chairs out of the way so House could get to the suitcase.

House glared at him. Unfazed, the aide said "I didn't think you'd want to have to navigate an obstacle course trying to get to your suitcase. Most people prefer to pack suitcases themselves. They want to make sure they don't leave anything behind and that their stuff doesn't get wrinkled, broken or stolen. I'll help with the suitcase after you pack it. Here are your crutches," he said as he handed the crutches to House.

House continued to glare at him, but it soon became apparent that the aide was not going to give in. House had several options; lie there and do nothing, which would result in the suitcase not getting packed, smack the aide with a crutch which would result in an arrest for assault and still not getting the suitcase packed, or give in and try to do it himself.

"Ok, but I don't want an audience. You can leave. Sorry I bothered you," House snapped.

"Call me when you're packed and I'll help with whatever else you need," the aide said professionally. The aide had been well trained in rehab. He knew that in the world of rehab, helping patients regain their own independence, to whatever degree that's possible, is the goal. Very often that involves doing whatever is necessary to enable the patient to do things for themselves. The aide remembered one of his instructors saying something like "They can't do it for themselves if you keep doing it for them."

He walked out of the room knowing he had just done a very good thing, even if House didn't see it that way. Out in the hallway, Wilson high fived him and gave a silent fist pump.

Back in the room, sitting on the bed with his feet on the floor, House studied how he was going to get to the suitcase, pull it back to his bed and pack it, all with two crutches under his armpits and an uncooperative leg. Thanks to a great pain management program with the fentanyl patch and oral ketorolac, pain wasn't really as much of an issue anymore. Thanks to his forced compliance with physical therapy while he was in the hospital, his upper body strength had become Superman-esque. His body wasn't really getting in the way of the process of packing his suitcase. His mind was.

Packing his suitcase meant it was time to go home. Packing his suitcase meant it was time to leave the safety of his hospital room and the comfort of knowing that your every little need would be met by someone else if need be. Packing his suitcase meant he had no other choice but to get used to life on his own with a disability. He'd seen others in the disability support group who didn't seem to have as much difficulty accepting their limitations as he did. Packing his suitcase and going home meant that the next time he had to pee in the middle of the night, he couldn't call a nurse to bring him a urinal. Yeah, he could make it to the bathroom on his own. And yeah, he could pack the damn suitcase on his own too. But it would be nice not to have to plan out ahead of time how he was going to get those tasks accomplished.

Faced with no other real choice, he shoved the crutches under his armpits and stood up. Thanks to all the good PT, he was no longer shaky with the crutches, but he still didn't trust himself bending over to pick up the suitcase or the stuff he'd just tossed on the floor. That would mean temporarily having to give up one crutch, something he wasn't sure was such a good idea.

Funny how long it took him to come up with an easy solution. This world renowned physician who never missed even the most obscure symptoms in others and could piece medical mysteries together in record time had to actually put some thought into this easy to resolve dilemma.

After several maddening, exasperating minutes, House felt like an idiot for not immediately realizing all he had to do was catch the suitcase with the tip of a crutch and pull it over. Same thing with the items he'd haphazardly tossed on the floor. From there it was even easier to flip the little items up onto his bed, also by using the tip of a crutch. The suitcase wasn't really a problem either because once he used the crutch to pull it over to his bed, it had a retractable handle and he could easily lift it up even from a seated position on his bed. He actually felt like a fool for two reasons; one, for not realizing any of this sooner, and two, for acting like such a helpless baby in front of Wilson when he actually could have packed the suitcase last night and saved time, trouble, and his dignity. Wilson was right. His attitude was holding him back.

He had been conditioned, through life with an abusive parent, to believe (among other things) that no matter how difficult the task, nothing he accomplished was ever really, truly good enough. So when faced with the many difficult tasks in rehabilitation, he'd mastered everything he'd been expected to do so far, but nothing ever felt really good enough. He was never satisfied with what he'd accomplished. Picking up discarded items and packing a small suitcase with a bad leg and two crutches was certainly possible, and yet not easy. Finishing those tasks independently should have left him with some sense of satisfaction, he realized; instead, all he felt was self-doubt and embarrassment because he'd made himself feel foolish and look foolish in front of Wilson. Now, Wilson would walk in to the room, find the suitcase packed, and think he'd won some kind of stupid victory. That was all House could focus on.

Meanwhile, Wilson made a quick trip down to the physical therapy department. Ruth was setting her area up for the patients she had scheduled that day. "Hi, do you have a few moments?" Wilson asked. "I see that you're busy, so maybe that was a stupid question," he qualified his question quickly.

"Nope, I'm not too busy. What can I help you with?" Ruth asked as she moved about her area, arranging items where she wanted them.

"Do you really think Greg is ready to go home?"

Ruth stopped and stood up to face Wilson. "Let's both find somewhere to sit a moment."

They both found comfortable chairs.

"He's met all of the discharge criteria so far, so yes, he's ready to go home."

"I'm not talking about criteria, or test results, or measurable data or anything like that. I'm talking about your gut feeling. Do you think he's ready to go home?" Wilson asked.

Ruth smiled. Wilson looked at her and realized there was something behind that smile; it was a "knowing" smile. It was the smile parents always flash when their teens tell them they don't know what it's like to be a teenager. Of course they do; their teens are never convinced of that, though.

"Let me hazard a guess," Ruth replied. "I think you're just as unsure of his readiness to go home as he is."

"You're not secretly a psychiatrist, are you?" Wilson laughed. "I have to admit, he may be ready to go home but that doesn't mean it's going to be easy. I was hoping you'd say, 'of course he's ready', and then I could get the satisfaction of volleying with you. You hit the ball back to me, though. Gotta give you credit for that."

"I made him a bet," Wilson continued. Ruth's ears perked up at that. "Yeah, you heard right. There's a thousand dollars on the line. Did you hear that Dr. Smith asked him to find a new physiatrist?"

"I'd heard that, yes. I'm actually surprised Greg didn't find a new one before now. Dr. Smith is great at what he does but he can be hard to get along with, especially when the patients have as much or more medical knowledge than he does," Ruth admitted.

"Well, the bet is that, once he finds a new physiatrist, he has to comply with everything the physiatrist prescribes for two months. He has to give me a copy of his outpatient PT schedule and he has to give me a copy of the physiatrist's prescribed therapy regimen. I win the thousand dollars if he fails to comply with even one part of the prescribed therapy. If he misses one appointment or one home prescribed therapy exercise and I find out about it, he's out a thousand dollars. If he does everything exactly as prescribed for two months, he's a thousand dollars richer at my expense."

Ruth laughed. "Now I have to give YOU credit. I never would have thought of that! Bribery, or maybe even extortion! Cool!"

"Yeah, well, I gotta play to our strengths. Listen, it's been great talking to you. I have to get back to him. You're going to see him one more time before he leaves today, right?" Wilson said hopefully.

"Sure am."


End file.
